


this is the uprising

by Itar94



Series: the ghost and the raven [3]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alien Culture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Universe - Daemons, Atlantis Team, BAMF John Sheppard, Backstory, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Culture Shock, Gen, Hint of John Sheppard/Rodney McKay, John Sheppard Whump, Marine Corps, Marines, Military Jargon, Non-Linear Narrative, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s) of Color - Freeform, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV Alternating, POV Outsider, Sentient Atlantis, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Worldbuilding, everyone is protective and loyal, some mentions of blood and gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:25:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6461206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itar94/pseuds/Itar94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“An expedition? to where?” Aiden asks. Adria wonders: <i>Why choose us?</i><br/>They have heard rumours, before, in the corridors of Cheyenne Mountain, but now Dr Weir confirms them: “To Atlantis.”<br/><i>(the making of a city.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. endgame

**Author's Note:**

> (2016-04-14) Hello, I've returned with a new fic (again)! However, this one won't make sense without reading [we are the raven and the ghost](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6091879/chapters/13963222) first. This isn't a sequel or prequel as much as it's world-building, introducing new POVs, more character background, etc. Also to make more sense of this verse, its details and continuity. The idea for this fic was mostly that I wanted to expand on chapters 26-27 _seizure_ in more detail, the whole staging of the Uprising, from other characters' points of view. It grew into something broader than that. So, this fic will require at least a skimming through of "we are the raven...", because I'm going to dive right into this 'verse and throw around terms and names established in that fic. If you're wondering about an actual sequel to "we are the raven and the ghost", I'm working on that too, but the drafts for this fic are more finished which is why I'm deciding to start posting. I'm multitasking, as always. Plus I want to go back to the first fic and proofread/revise etc. and get rid of all grammatical mistakes. I can't promise to keep updating this as often as I did with "we are the raven..." because I was on a roll then in a way I've never been before...But I hope I'll be able to keep up a satisfactory pace anyway! Please enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“An expedition? to where?”_  
>  they have heard rumors, before, in the corridors of Cheyenne Mountain, but now Dr Weir confirms them: “To Atlantis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-01) Chapter updated/revised.

# this is the uprising

**i.  
**

# endgame 

_they have heard rumors, before, in the corridors of the base, but now Dr Weir confirms them:_

* * *

**Hyperspace: approaching New Lantea (exact location unknown) · Pegasus**  
**2005 (Terran time) · twenty-five minutes until the end of the Uprising**

* * *

The corridor isn’t misty and dark – instead it’s bright and it could be any day; it could be a training exercise, a false call. Except it can’t be, because they wouldn’t stage an exercise like this, scaled across the whole City, just hours after lift-off from Lantea, fleeing the remnants of the Wraith Hiveships and death.

This can’t be a normal day.

This will never be a normal day.

Outside the wide windows, the blue streaming lights of hyperspace are gleaming, frantically and deceptively, as the doors are forced open with C4 and a flashbang thrown inside. It goes off and there’s a broken cry, shocked, the clatter of an armored body falling; and they stream inside;

_“Go, go, go!”_

Stunners poised and shots go off, one after another, from the alien weaponry. Clashes of blue against body armour. A brief, quick burst: the hallway is filled with deafening noise, voices; the controlled chaos of attack –

A quick-moving shadow; from the corner of his eye, he sees Teyla’s Dæmon, Kanaan, launching himself toward another, bearing it to the ground sharply. Aiden swirls around when hearing, in stereo both live and across radio how Stackhouse cries out, hit; grabs his Swiss army knife, cleanly moving it through the air and cuts the taser conductors but Stackhouse doesn’t get to his feet again, exhaling, shocked, but alive.

Aiden hits the marine holding the taser with his in’tar, once; another red shot comes from behind, and he exchanges a swift nod with Kemp;  _nice work_  –

In less than five minutes, all what remains of Colonel Everett’s forces are down – and it’s difficult to think of them by names, about having sat in the same commissary just hours earlier sharing a meal as the Wraith fire hailed down upon the shields; it’s difficult to think of them as enemies;

The Colonel is the only one who hasn’t been subdued, and the guy has left an imprint, an impressively cut figure with a file Aiden’s paygrade probably isn’t enough to read and he had demanded such respect and earlier, before, Aiden had given it; given it because he trust in the Corps, in his fellow marines and his superior officers.

Sure, it’s been an odd year, reporting to a zoomie, but the Major has left a different kind of impression on everybody, perhaps unknowingly; and the respect and loyalty demanded there is mutual, and intense in a way which Aiden has never before felt, in all his years with the Corps;

And now the Colonel is left standing, and the Major offers him to surrender, peacefully and quietly – no one is meant to be hurt; no one was meant to die –  _Say that to Clark,_  Aiden wants to shout furiously: Lieutenant Thompson had been a good guy, they’d sparred together and exchanged jokes in the commissary and become friends, finding a common wavelength in the off-hours as well as on the battlefield, and then he’d bled out so fucking  _uselessly_  – Aiden hasn’t seen the pictures, but he’d heard the storm in Carson’s voice as he’d reported and the coldness in the Major’s expression in the aftermath;

“Stand down, Colonel,” the Major says, orders. “It’s over.”

Except it’s far from over and Aiden’s nerves are alight, with fire, and they’re surrounding the Colonel and his wolf, spread out in a loose circle around him with in’tars and stunners raised, and no one moves except the Major’s Raven, dancing tauntingly in the air above, and the wolf takes a leap –

* * *

This is the movement before the ending.

_but first:_

* * *

**Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado, U.S. · Earth · the Milky Way**  
**2004, Terran time · 416 days before the Uprising**

* * *

Aiden Ford is turning twenty-four years old in three days, and there’s a phone-call, a letter, a knock on the door, a question:

He joined the Stargate Program exactly fifteen weeks ago, and now there’s no Air Force Colonel or General asking, but a civilian, a diplomat, Dr Elizabeth Weir – she’s been in charge ever since O’Neill got stuck beneath the ice - something about stasis or something other; Aiden’s not certain what it means. But they keep saying the guy’s not dead, just kind of - sleeping, trapped in time, and they can’t wake him up because that’d kill him, overload his head, all that alien knowledge that has been downloaded into his brain. When all that went down, Aiden wasn’t there; he was on the Alpha site with a few others on a training op meant to last for two weeks, but then a messenger had walked through the Gate and said something about a strike over Antarctica - one of the Goa’uld System Lords attacking Earth – and SG-1 was caught up in the middle of it. And in the chaos they’d been recalled but too late to see the Battle itself, and Aiden got nowhere near the front lines, for which he’s both relieved and slightly jealous.

And he’d wondered, then, what if the Prometheus had shot down the enemy or if more ships were coming, if he should call his grandparents (if that would be allowed) to warn them of an alien invasion, of all fucking things –

(Fifteen weeks ago, aliens were still the thing of movies and comic books, entirely unreal and nothing to worry about.)

Now Dr Weir says:  _We’re planning an Expedition_ , and she wonders if he would like to be a part of it;  _Colonel Sumner recommended wants you to be among his officers_ , she says.

He knows all about the Battle over Antarctica and Colonel Sumner wasn’t there; only Air Force had been part of the strike, ship-to-ship. Afterward he and many others had seen the shaky grainy footage from the Prometheus; heard the recorded echoes of the explosions as Anubis’ fleet was destroyed by the Earth ship combined with the firepower of some kind of alien outpost – something with O’Neill and a Chair. And he’s been part of the SGC long enough to get the grips of its dangers and its occasional insanity, tearing at the edges of normality; seen the fronting team from afar when he’s on guard duty in the Gate room. Heard the blaring klaxons and the dialing sequence:  _chevron one two three –_

“An expedition? to where?” Aiden asks. Adria wonders:  _Why choose us?_

Curiously. They have heard rumors, before, in the corridors of the base, but now Dr Weir confirms them:

“To Atlantis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ancient/Latin translations:**  
>  **Avalon** the Milky Way  
>  **Terra** Earth


	2. the approach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _sure, he’s stepped through the Gate before, but never to another freakin’ **galaxy**._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-01) Chapter updated/revised.

**ii.  
**

# the approach

 _sure, he’s stepped through the Gate before  
but never to another freakin’ **galaxy**._

* * *

**Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado Springs, U.S. · Earth · the Milk Way**  
**2004 (Terran time) · 343 days before the Uprising**

* * *

It’s a sunny day: the kind of warmth which might be oppressing, cresting toward summer, staging a sharp contrast to the cold winds of Antarctica. He’s been stateside and off duty for barely a week, but unable to rest; too much pent up energy, nervously ebbing through his system and across their Bond and Adria is running in excited circles for a lot of the time.

It’s time to go.

Sure, he’s stepped through the Stargate before. A handful of times it’s been on mildly serious missions. Meeting already established allies – that newbie kind of stuff; not that Aiden says it too loudly. He’s proud to have been handpicked for this – chosen by Colonel Sumner himself to be his XO and, Jesus, he can’t really believe it sometimes. Going to sleep – or trying to, lying in bed staring at the ceiling – he’s been chosen as XO, he knows the regs and the manuals like the back of his hand and all, but still, he’s twenty-four, there are surely loads of other guys better qualified –

Sure, he’s stepped through the Gate before, but never to another freakin’  _galaxy_. 

Grandma and Grandpa had been so proud. Celebrated with cake and everything, and Aiden had called his cousin Sheri – she couldn’t come in person because she’s in Georgia, working odd hours and pretending to get by. Not that he can tell them where he’s going, or for how long: top-secret assignment to a classified base. But they can see how excited and nervous he is, and he can reveal that he’s been brought pretty high up the chain of command – something he had been hoping for but not truly expected, not for a USMC Lieutenant still so fresh-faced that some guys like to glance and snide:  _Just a little kid playing around with the big boys._

 _Don’t let it get to us,_  Adria has said, staring poison at the guys in question but only from within his sleeve when they’re not looking, because Aiden would prefer his jaw whole and nose unbroken. Besides, a lot of those guys aren’t going to Atlantis.  _Probably just jealous._

There’s a safe routine in Cheyenne now being uprooted with preparations; preparations have been going on for months, all since figuring that Atlantis is real, somewhere out there. Finally, they have an address, pieced together under the layers of ice;

Aiden remembers clearly that day in Antarctica. He’d been there for a couple of weeks, supervising – or, well, babysitting. Not his idea of fun. Mostly there to make sure the scientists didn’t do anything extraordinarily stupid, or brawled with each other or – worse yet – tried dragging marines into the mix. Coordinating supply drops. Colonel Sumner was at Cheyenne, tying up loose knots, handling contracts with a few more people he wanted along. Everyone, every name, had been closely scrutinized and surveyed and picked or rejected. The majority of the guys – and the few females – had been with the SGC for months or years already; they knew the drills, what to expect – or, as they should put it in the pamphlets:  _Expect the most crazy sorts of unexpected._

Then one of those squid-like Ancient drones, which General O’Neill had launched in the thousands against Anubis’ ships months earlier, suddenly started glowing and rushed off the table where one of the scientists – at this point Aiden wasn’t clear on the name – was examining it. Off, up, out. Radio emergency warnings were issued, hurriedly: “ _We’ve got a rogue drone that can seek a target on its own, land immediately and shut down your engines, this is not a drill; repeat: this is_   **not**   _a drill.”_

And Aiden and Adria practically held their breaths for those long minutes while Dr Beckett struggled in the Chair to shut the thing down, because there’s a chopper inbound – the disembodied voice reporting in had sounded vaguely chipper as if they liked it here, as if they’re perfectly content chauffeuring people to and fro across the wide expanses of ice – there’s a chopper inbound with General O’Neill in it.

It could have been a dramatically disaster, the kind of irony which no one would dare to speak about, if the General got shot down by the most powerful weapon known to humankind, the one he’d activated in the first place with that alien gene of his –

But it didn’t happen, and the chopper touched down without a scratch, and Aiden exhaled as he relayed the news. And then he didn’t see the General or his pilot in person that day or for several days after because he’s got other stuff to do, and after filing his reports, the incident has nearly slipped his mind.

* * *

When first approached about the Stargate, a Colonel Samantha Carter handing him a confidentiality agreement to sign, Aiden had called his grandparents. Nothing to say to them, nothing concrete: but he wants to make sure their voices are real and they’re OK. And then he considers the possibilities and there’s something about the Colonel, an honesty,  _there’s something great out there, much greater than you and I could possibly begin to imagine: here’s your chance to be a part of it._

And when there’s been hesitance, the Colonel had grinned and said: “You’ll never get a chance like this again. Tell you what - ever wanted to be an astronaut?”

* * *

_When Adria Settles on a shape, they’re sixteen years old and it’s mid-September and Aiden’s desperately trying to do anything but homework or chores or whatever else must be done – he’s starting to fall behind, he knows that he needs to get it together; with a too low GPA, his chances in the Corps will lessen and he really really wants to become a marine. Carry those ribbons like his dad did, before the bullet took him away._

_Make mom proud._

_But he can’t focus, not since the phone-call and mom spending days and hours and weeks at the hospital and it’s that morning, something stops to change and he doesn’t know it yet. Adria doesn’t mention it like a bright and sudden idea. No one writes it down._

_He’s already been living with his grandparents for a long while and he has been expecting it, somehow. The words. Yet, hearing them spoken aloud by the doctors:_  It’s time to go –

_He’s holding her hand when they pull the plug and their mom’s smiling, gently, as her heart stills; smiling like the moment she closed her eyes, months ago, and Aiden wonders if she’s dreaming._

* * *

He doesn’t see it, but hears the outcry, the raging surprise – the pilot – some zoomie, namelessly – has got the same funky alien gene and sat down in the Chair disobediently, and Dr Weir insists they need him on the expedition. Aiden hears of this later, through rumors mostly: and then he’s back in Cheyenne, and there’s a churning tense agitation amongst the marines: some zoomie’s coming with them. A disgraced Special Ops pilot, or maybe just a nutter – got himself nearly discharged, that’s why he was in Antarctica chauffeuring people around, the USAF equivalent of staring at your navel. The accounts are unclear, and Colonel Sumner is not happy by any means.

Aiden sees him some odd fifteen days before Leaving Day, from afar, and the guy sure doesn’t look like too much. Fits the profile of a mommy-missing, desk-flying air-dale who really shouldn’t be here; lanky, with hair that is so far from regulation that Aiden almost feels sorry for him, and a constantly slouching posture - no wonder Colonel Sumner hates him.

They don’t talk, not for a long time, and Aiden sees him in the mess and in the corridors, briefly, looking a bit uncomfortable in his newly issued SG uniform, a hand in his pocket almost always. And there’s no shadow following him, and there are whispers:  _The Major’s got a really tiny Dæmon,_  the guys laugh in the lockers,  _have you seen it? ‘Cause I sure bet it’s as tiny as his –_

And Aiden would like to pride himself with being trustful and not spreading around undue rumors, but honestly, he’s only human, and then he finds himself next to the guy as the Major’s changing for a workout.

“So, I heard your Dæmon’s  _real shy_.”

And the Major shrugs, slightly, hand moving inside the biggest pocket of the right side of his jacket, which he’s still wearing, head titled slightly. And Adria tenses,  _Maybe we just made a big mistake_  – The guy might be putting shame unto the Air Force, but he’s still a Major – “Uh, no offence, sir,” Aiden chokes out.

Maybe there was some truth to those rumors. That Special Ops thing because there’s a sudden hard darkness to the man’s jawline and his eyes, and Aiden avoids meeting his gaze, not expecting that. But the man’s drawl is relaxed, deceptively: “No problem, Lieutenant.”

“Cause – well, that’s what they said in the barracks. Not, not that I was privy to more than that, sir.”

 _We’re digging a hole,_  Adria points out needlessly.

 _This was_  your  _idea!_

_Was not!_

The man isn’t blinking, though his tone sharpens like a knife edgingly being drawn: “Yeah, I guess they would be saying that. Don’t trust blindly in everything you hear, Lieutenant.”

 _Don’t trust blindly in everything you hear;_  variations of such words have been told before, but never etched onto skin.

There’s something about the Major that gives him the creeps, and Adria hides behind his back and Aiden is all tense and hopes it doesn’t show on his face as he lets the man pass him by, walk out the doors.

For a second time, they exhale together:

* * *

After that, Aiden double-checks the lockers and the gym and the mess and basically everywhere before he enters a room and it’s not excessive, it’s a precaution and no one is noticing enough to ask, therefore he doesn’t need to say he’s trying to avoid similar situations. Besides, most of the time it’s not necessary because Major Sheppard is holed up a lot on Level 16, with the geeks. The Mountain’s New Light Switch, they call him, and General O’Neill has got to be happy about that, least. Aiden has heard enough stories to know how much the scientists must’ve been trying to pester the General just because he’s got the Ancient gene thing.

And to be honest, Aiden isn’t really sure about what that means, how important it is. Sure, he’s read the reports. Seen scratchy video footage: lights above Antarctica, aircraft going wild, thousands of drones reaching through the sky and tearing Anubis’ forces apart – that was thanks to the Chair, thanks to the General operating it. Sitting in it. There’s power there which can only be accessed by people with the ATA-gene.

He’s tested negative, which was actually a relief. He’s not sure if he wants to be some kind of mutant. When there’s a mention of Dr Beckett working on artificially producing or inducing the gene, Aiden isn’t too keen and won’t appear on the list of volunteers to try it. No, he’s perfectly happy with the genes he’s already got, without mixing anything alien into it.

All right, possibly, there’s this tiny part of him that’s less freaked out and more excited about possibilities – that same part of him that avidly enjoys comic books, and sci-fi movies, and all that which was amazing as a kid (he’s not a kid anymore, he has to keep insisting), cool when it wasn’t real. After going through the Stargate a couple of times – stuff like that lost some of its shine. The reality, the dangers of it – the terrifying truths: aliens, people dying because of it.

Some of this is such a big mess, and Aiden can’t claim to keep a grasp on all of its ends and politics and whatnot. Most days he and Adria are happy enough just to be here, to see it happening before their own eyes – they’ve been on sentry duty in the Gate room often enough to see SG-1 walk through the ring of naquadah and disappear off on adventures.

They know enough to be afraid.

The day comes and the final pieces of the puzzle are assembled and the strange alien battery is handed over for some guy called Dr McKay to plug in – the Stargate begins to turn, after Dr Weir’s uplifting speech which Aiden mostly didn’t hear over the loud rush of blood past his ears, pulse too rapid and breathing less controlled than it should be; they have no idea what lies beyond the event horizon. The day has come, and Aiden and Adria are honest-to-God kind of terrified, even as the echo of  _good luck_  and  _Semper Fi_  casts a lingering shadow over all the marines; they’ve been picked for this mission, chosen for the expedition because of their combined skills. This is their moment to shine, and he’s part of it.

Together, side-by-side, human and Dæmon step through the Stargate with a whoop:  _Atlantis, here we come –_

* * *

 **Wraith Homeworld (M01-092) · Pegasus**  
**2004 (Terran time) · 342 days before the Uprising**

* * *

Adria’s shaking, something ill at ease deep within, unwordable, curled up inside of his uniform, seeking warmth and closeness. His feet pound harshly against the floor of the alien ship. It’s dark in here, slightly foggy, breaths are heavy and there’s this weird smell like rotting meat and time left in a capsule forgotten.

Oh, god, the smell.

It’s the stark stench of death.

Colonel Sumner’s Dæmon is screaming, screaming: it’s the most terrible noise, and Aiden crosses through the ship, not having time to doubt because he needs to find the Major and the Colonel; the Major is the only guy who can fly these people out of here –

The room opening up before him is some kind of mock-up throne room, or assembly hall, and there’s a table full of food. The kind which humans eat, regardless of galaxy. He’s killed one of the guards without thinking and there’s this – it’s a woman, he thinks, in shape, except it doesn’t  _look_  fully human – doesn’t look human at all: and the Major’s there, and Aiden had heard the shot. Colonel Sumner is slumped on the floor. It’s his uniform, his dog tags gleaming, but his face is sunken and grey and he’s like a corpse, stripped of his days:

The Major leaps to his feet, and the thing – Keeper –  _Queen_  – its teeth are gleaming as it smirks, clawed-like hand spread out, it had been inches above the Major’s chest, just as it had formed a scar below Colonel Sumner’s throat. Aiden has no fucking idea why or how and he doesn’t want to know, not now, there’s no time and they’ve got to get out of here.

The Major moves like a machine, grabbing the fallen weapon from the dead guard and he doesn’t know how to use it – to shoot with it – so instead he wields it like a spear, pushing the blunt tip right through the Queen’s torso, in an opening between ribs, and it makes a ripping wet sound and there’s a spurt of blood that’s oddly humanly dark: red, perhaps black, dripping across the floor and smearing the Major’s hands and uniform:

“That  _has_  got to kill you,” Major Sheppard breathes, and the Wraith falls down:

In its last breaths there’s a warning, huge in its simplicity:  _You don’t know what you have done. The others will waken …_

* * *

They’ve been in the Pegasus galaxy for roughly twenty-four Earth hours and Aiden has seen his superior officer’s dead body and heard Sumner’s Dæmon scream. And now hunted by aliens in dart-shaped spaceships he finds out that the Major’s a damned good pilot because this is a spaceship, too, they’re in  **space**  fighting off some bad guys without real name – Teyla, the native Athosian, calls them Wraith, like ghosts, like shadows, like monsters hiding under the bed (we were never afraid of those until now);

Wraith don’t have Dæmons. They’ve never had them. They’re not like the Goa’uld, who, once they’ve taken a human host, destroy the Dæmon from within and leave a withered husk behind to scatter to the dust, slowly: they’re nothing like humans. There’s nothing there at all.

Major Sheppard blasts the Darts to pieces with a thought, and carries them through the event horizon to Atlantis.

* * *

The announcement is made before the feast, the survivors from the Athosian settlement gathering with the Tau’ri. Dr Weir holds a brief speech. A silent minute, which must be universally understood because none of the Athosians ask what it means; they bow their heads and knot their hands in what could be prayer, whispering something about Ancestors. Aiden doesn’t listen.

He sees, through the tall multi-colored windows, Weir on a balcony with the Major. His face is stern and pale, in a way that’s visible even from this distance, and from here there’s no way to know what they’re saying. They’re arguing, it looks like. Adria murmurs,  _Think we’ll still be XO after this?_

Fuck, Ford doesn’t want to step up. Isn’t ready to deal with it. Plus, he’s a Lieutenant and he might’ve been through the Gate a few times, he might’ve been part of this rescue op – which clearly gave away that the Major knows what he’s doing, even in another galaxy, far from home – but he’s never been to Afghanistan, or Iraq, or any of those places. He hasn’t really been  _anywhere_  until now.

The biggest most selfish part of him is so so so relieved when Dr Weir announces that the Major is going to take Colonel Sumner’s place, as acting military CO, effective immediately. A zoomie in charge of a hundred marines.

Weir is a civilian. She’s never going to truly know what that means.

There could be so much trouble, but there can’t be: there isn’t time. They’ve cut off from Earth, with no power to dial back. They can’t raise the shield, even if the City rose from the depth of the waters unbidden. They can’t go anywhere. Their supplies are limited, as is their ammo. No back-up is coming. It’s just them and the untested atmosphere, all these new stars to explore:

Suddenly aching somewhere deep inside, Aiden wishes he could write a letter back to Earth:  _Hey, Sheri. It’s me, your fave cousin Aiden. I’m sorry I can’t call anymore. You wouldn’t be able to guess what I’m up to right now…_

* * *

Lantea has a scatter of tiny moons and a bigger one, and orbits a single star in a way that doesn’t match the movements of the Earth around the sun. It means their Earth-tuned clocks are basically useless, so one of the first singular action by the tech department is to have everyone hand theirs in. Monologue wristwatches can’t be done much about – other than be worn as pure accessory – but the digital ones are quickly re-calibrated once they’ve figured out what they’re calling SAT,  _Standard Atlantis Time._  Twenty-seven hour days, five days a week, plus the odd leap day to make up for differences. At least it’ll make daily life and report filing and such a bit easier.

The time change, however, is nowhere near the biggest one to wreak havoc.

Major Sheppard is … weird. Aiden’s not sure yet if it’s good or bad. Most of the time, the man is honestly an enigma. He knows basically nothing about him. Well, only the stuff that everyone knows: USAF Major, handy pilot, formerly Special Ops. Has a disquiet with the brass, with obeying orders, though he seems to tolerate or even like Weir’s command. Quietly personal. Smirks in a way that makes Dr McKay grumble – or perhaps that’s just the way the Major keeps annoying the guy, poking fun. Not that he’s alone doing that. Other things can be added to the list: wears aviators when the sun’s out and often when it isn’t either. Oddly dark sense of humor. Surprisingly good marksman for a zoomie.

He also might seem far too off-putting and relaxed but he isn’t, and he takes command very seriously. And he isn’t so stupid not to ask questions on the basis of pride; not that he’s all-around humble, but at least he doesn’t seem averse to mixing with folks lower down the ladder, exchanging brief hellos in the corridors. Out here, they’ve quickly dropped some part of protocol - one thing Aiden’s picked up pretty quickly is that the Major doesn’t like being saluted.  _Why_  is anyone’s guess. His issues with brass, maybe; it would retain an uncomfortable echo. When he not only keeps Aiden as XO but asks him to be on his team, AR-1, Aiden doesn’t hesitate to say yes - because how cool is that, to be on the Atlantis equivalent of the SG-1, to be on par with that legend! - and the Major uses him as a sort of bridge to the rest of the marines. Asks stuff about them, about the Corps, about habits; subtly, most of the time, in a way which Aiden is surprised to realize he’s being questioned at all. Slowly, the Major tries to merge with them; not wholly, but enough to be accepted, to become more than just  _that odd zoomie they unfortunately have to obey._

He thinks the Major’s probably a lot smarter than he lets on - he might be putting on a show just to annoy McKay, who has loudly proclaimed that every marine (he keeps bunching in the Major with them, to everyone’s disgruntlement) has the gathered IQ of about a peanut. Though people know to have patience with the guy and not throttle him even if they really really would like to. A lot of the time, McKay and his brains are what stands between survival and destruction, drawing a fine line. And Aiden figures the Major might have a bit of a soft spot for the guy, or maybe it’s the snark, or something, since he asks McKay to join AR-1 too.

Their final member, Teyla, is elusive, difficult to define. Alien. She doesn’t always understand their Earth references, their Earth habits, their manner of speech. The Major doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, the way they’re getting on, Aiden has heard whispers in the barracks, that the Athosian woman and the major might be getting close; and there are probably some kind of rules about that, not exactly fraternization, set down by the SGC long-ago. However, if there is, they’re all ignoring it - they’ve got other issues. Survival. Plus, it might not be true.  _Might not be true at all,_  Adria murmurs, glancing sideways - the Major spends a lot of down-time alongside McKay, down in the labs, and Aiden has never caught him and Teyla being anything but professional. Though she does that forehead-greeting-thing with him more than anybody else, quiet gestures shared – she would tell stories sometimes about Athos and worlds she’s visited before, things that can be used as intel. In turn, the Major and Dr Weir talk about Earth, teaching and learning in turn. Sometimes Aiden finds himself talking with her too, about home, about the city where he grew up, mentioning his grandparents in passing. Little things that create a larger pattern, knitted together.

They’re slowly forming into something more than an expedition. They’re forming a real team.

* * *

The Major isn’t just peering down from a balcony above, hauntingly, but stepping down the stairs to meet them and actually learn from them, and teach them in kind. It’s a refreshing relief. He doesn’t cut slack, usually, though protocol here is much more at ease than even Cheyenne, and even then there’d been some blurred lines.

Maybe this could work out, after all, without collapsing completely.

Because the Major doesn’t show disdain or fear or superiority. In fact he guy is unlike anything they’d all expected, and the small talk in the mess and the lockers, they’re changing: a slow change, but one that’ll linger. Not everyone agrees, like Sergeant Bates – but he’s kind of uptight with everybody, and no one would ever dare to mess with him. Most of them do, though, as days turn into weeks turn into months and even Sanchez, who’s battle-hardened and bad-ass (and, all right, Aiden might be wondering badly how the guy got that scar) admits: “The guy’s not bad for a zoomie.”

This could work out.

* * *

The Major still remains partially a stranger. There are still questions, but there are to most of the people on base. But the Major’s mystery remains deeper and darker than most. Not everyone has read his file, and Ford’s only seen it from afraid, and there’s blacked out stuff and he hadn’t lingered to read all of it. There’s no time to think too much about the past, out here, with the Wraith and God knows what else right around the corner. They’re busy: gathering intel, seeking ZPMs, finding allies, building bridges both internally and externally.

No one has ever laid eyes on his Dæmon. Some think they have, whispering:  _It’s this tiny thing, a bug._  Whispers put there by rumor or maybe years of strategy.  _It’s this tiny thing, he calls it ‘shy’ like a name - maybe it_  is  _the name._

Dæmon names are private things, so no one would ever demand to know it for real. Still, curiosity thrives on rumor. 

In-between missions and in-City duties, Aiden doesn’t think about too much. Only at nights when he can’t sleep, when the darkness becomes oppressing and the noises of the City, the waves upon the Piers, are still so alien and far too loud. Then he might wonder, sometimes. Adria wagers it’s a centipede, or something else vaguely creepy that would feed certain phobias. A bug, huh - what color? what size? what’s their name? The Major has never specified, and no one asks.

No one asks.


	3. insurgent, part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _they’re team, after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2016-06-30) It’s been awhile since I wrote and I'm sorry for that. But now I have no more studies or exams, so here is a long-awaited update! I've also gone through the fics of this series and corrected some grammatical errors, fixed continuity when necessary, checked the formatting, etc - mostly minor details that won’t affect the plot. This chapter corresponds to chapters 17-24 of "we are the raven and the ghost". Please enjoy!  
> (2018-04-21) Chapter updated/revised.

**iii.  
**

# insurgent

**part one**

_they’re team, after all._

* * *

**Atlantis · Lantea · Pegasus**  
**2005 (Terran time) · eighty-four hours before the Uprising**

* * *

They’re in the Control Room when the technician Chuck’s voice fills the City’s speakers, an well-known alarm blaring, and the motions of everyone present changes at once:

“We have an incoming wormhole!”

Corporal Jimmy (“Call me J.J.; Jimmy is my old man.”) MacGrimmon drops the box he’s holding (hoping it’s not fragile) and rushes into action, taking point from above while others are spreading out below, arms fixed at the forming wormhole. He senses, rather than sees, his teammates forming up alongside. Waiting, fingers resting on the triggers, ready for whatever is going to be sent through. The shimmering shield is raised, but an IDC is coming through - and it’s announced, shockedly:

“It’s Stargate Command!”

_Wait, what?_

* * *

“I don’t fucking believe it.”

In the gloom of a besieged sky rapidly approaching, the Stargate is glittering blue and familiar uniforms are stepping through. Guns holstered and resting on shoulders and crates being loaded and watchtowers constructed; the pieces of what’s going to become REXP-RG/BBT mounted railguns; semi-automatics and ammo, heaps and heaps of it. There’s a full bird, red cap perfectly adjusted and his Dæmon is a fierce wolf. They are flooding the Gate Room and the whole City might be shuddering with sudden relief.

Someone got the message: the digital bottle they’d thrown into a wormhole to Earth less than a week ago, unsure if it would ever reach home.

J.J. doesn’t think of himself as a very religious man – hard to be, with aliens abound, and the infinity of the universe more palpable than ever –  but he remembers going to Church on Sundays, the constricting strictness of the suit and tie mom and dad insisted that he wear; and mass was kind of nice; he liked listening to the local choir. And he makes a point when he can to return: if not to the same place, but the same state of mind. Can be the one to speak brief well-chosen (but never enough) words in the makeshift Chapel arranged in the East Tower - below the Botany Department – like when Miller and Jenkins died. Poor bastards. The Genii didn’t even give them a fighting chance. There’s an acting Mosque next-door; a few of the civilians go there, he knows, has witnessed a few daily prayers; and there is a comfort in that, when everything else is so uncertain.

Will their ammo last? Will their friendly neighbors turn out to be not-so-friendly? The uncertainty of food and lasting meds and the future - and the certainty of the Wraith getting here, sooner or later. They’ve all realized that, now. The Wraith are worse than the Goa’uld – they don’t want to enslave, to act as Gods, be prayed to – they don’t care at fucking all. Humans are just food to them (and J.J. isn’t the only person on base who’s turned vegetarian as of late).

Sometimes he’s jealous of how other guys can be so convicted. Find peace and reassurance in this chaos. Sometimes he considers the blindness of faith, on the other hand, and the difficulty of middle ground. And now he watches the rising flood of soldiers filling the City, and it isn’t condemning, how can it be condemning when it is their salvation?

 _Thank you, Mary and Joseph,_  whispers Juno across their Bond:  _Thank you._

Beside him, Nichole (“No nickname, no, don’t even ask; and that’s  _Lance Corporal_  to you.”) Gladys snaps into attention as Ford thunders past with the Major and Weir. Emerging from a meeting where evacuation plans have been discussed and distributed, and there are whispers they’re going to self-destruct Atlantis so that the Wraith won’t get to it. Gladys joins him in watching hawk-eyed as their leaders gather by the bottom of the stairs, coming up to meet the Colonel - can’t recognize him; must be new to the SGC –  _Seems alright, I suppose,_  Juno remarks. Though at this point anything that could be remotely helpful would seem alright, in taking those railguns with him the Colonel is being more than just remotely helpful.

“Hey, I know that guy - that’s Greene,” mutters Lieutenant Emmanuel (“Call me ‘Emmanuel’ and I’ll smash your nose in.”) DeSalle. Scrutinizes the newcomers with a frown. He’s always like that, slow to trust, wary. It can be good sometimes, and sometimes a real pain in the ass and that’s another thing that J.J.’s learned during his time with AR-5: make sure to make DeSalle smile before greeting the locals, and things go along much more smoothly. (It also helps that his Dæmon is as fluffy and cute as they come. Kind of contradictory, really: more bark than bite. On the other hand, Gladys and her Dæmon are both much more bite than bark. To be honest, though, DeSalle is just a big teddy bear in disguise.)

And DeSalle is frowning darkly, even when it’s obvious now that the SGC has sent these marines, marines armed to the teeth and prepared, and they are here to fight the Wraith -

_So we’re not going to die horribly. Or blow up the City. Fancy that._

“You know the Colonel?” asks Gladys, in that northern British way of hers. Another thing J.J. has learned: not to point her accent out constantly. Or call it adorable. Or hilarious. Gladys’ right hook is mighty powerful. And it’s not like she’s the only Brit around here - though the combination of her being a woman and armed, well, that’s rarer. Not a lot of female marines or other military are part of the expedition - Gladys, Faulkner, Hooper, that redhead Brittany ... That’s about it. Colonel Sumner’s choosing, so many days ago. More of them among the scientists.

Looking at the newcomers, he can’t make out any faces he knows.

“No, no,” DeSalle shakes his head, gestures with a hand; “he’s a Lieutenant, see, right over there. We went to boot camp together. Called him the Green Greene. No idea who the big man is.”

“Helpful,” mutters Gladys, and DeSalle makes a face like he’s hurt. J.J. ignores them.

Ford is now saluting the Colonel smartly and the Colonel speaks with a sharp clipped voice used to being obeyed, and he leaves Weir behind and the Major is more tense and stiff than usual and J.J. thinks:  _Well, that can’t be good_. From the banisters they cannot catch more than glimpses and snatches of conversation and then the chiefs are moving upward, inward. To the Conference Room, probably. To discuss strategies and plans. All the while, the Gate remains alight like a halo of promise, and more people are coming through – a dozen, two dozen, three; sixty, perhaps, at the end of it. People and weapons and hope.

“Wonder how they got here,” he muses.

“Must’ve found one of those fancy alien batteries,” Gladys says. Considers.

“Yeah, that, or blown up a star or something. I guess it takes the kind of energy levels the scientists keep getting hard-ons about - pardon the language, ma’am.”

“Oh, shut it.” Mutters on her breath:  _One more time ..._

And as the wormhole dies and leaves the room in sudden hushed darkness, J.J. removes himself from the spot to move in to help with preparing and unpacking, and to check in with whoever’s available about newly-issued orders. Wishes DeSalle would drop that damned frown. Taps his earpiece to locate their last lost teammate, who’s in the Citadel to help pick up the stragglers and pack up beans and bullets for evac. That’s not needed anymore.

“Kemp, get your ass to the Gate! You won’t believe this!”

* * *

The announcement isn’t City-wide and openly broadcast, but spreads through the ranks in a flash. The Colonel is in charge. Weir is not. That’s just not  _right_.

OK, he could be OK with it: the guy’s a marine, like him. Like the most of them. So he could be OK with it. But the civilian scientists are teetering on the brink of a frustration that could become violent quicker than most outsiders could comprehend (people who haven’t experienced a mass coffee withdrawal). And J.J. could be OK with it, really, but he sees Major Sheppard so briefly and the look in the guy’s eyes is dangerous and things have changed since they first came here. The mistrust and disdain toward the zoomie has faded, the laughter has died. The guy defended the City against the Genii – everyone knows, like a story shared around a campfire: there’s enough gossip apart from that, too. There are loads of tough rough guys around here but the Major, he’s usually so laid-back and casual and therein lies the danger. It’s easy to make fun of him believing that there’s a soft nice target. And then all of a sudden you’re the target, and you get your brains blown out, and sixty people are dead.

At least the Genii haven’t attempted to bother them since.

So when he sees the Major’s cold stormy eyes and the set jaw and hears that Weir’s no longer in command and it’s the Colonel’s word, well. J.J. considers backing off. For some reason the lights of the corridor are flickering, misbehaving. Weird. The ZPMs - plural: always good - should be keeping the power at a steady level. The techs have already activated the shield. The Wraith are soon upon them. Yeah, the way the Major is quietly stalking down the corridor, J.J. and his Dæmon consider retreat.

But there’s work to do.

“Sir, what’s the plan?”

“Earth has got a ship on the way,” the Major explains, “but it’s two or three days out and the Wraith will get here any minute, so we need the Chair online - Dr Weir is going to Earth to get some drones.”

“A ship? What, the Prometheus?”

Back at the SGC, it was the talk of the month when the brand-new, not even finished, X-303 got hijacked by a bunch of mercenaries disguised as journalists. Years ago, now. Colonel Carter got stuck there, and that guy who replaced Dr Jackson when he was Ascended (J.J. can’t really wrap his head around that) – some alien, Quinn or Quill or something. Didn’t see him in person: happened before his time, but he’s heard enough about him, seen pictures of a young guy – looks human enough - with a Dæmon of alien Shape, clutching a cup of tea. Liked to watch the weather channels, apparently, Martinez had told him – some kind of scientist, an archaeologist, from another planet and it’d taken a while to wrap his head around that. And General O’Neill and Teal’c, of course, they’d been there and sorted it out, and then there was something about Replicators ... _Nevermind_.

Wryly, the Major explains: “Apparently they’ve finished building another one. The Daedalus.”

Three days out. Shit, that’s too long. Even with the new fancy railguns and ammo – they can’t take out Hives with that. The shield will protect them, though. Yeah. And the scientists will pull something out of their asses like they do and there’ll be a big bang. Yes. J.J. won’t let hope die yet, no so soon after it has risen.

Wait. Weir’s leaving for Earth?  _What_?

The question must’ve shown on his face like daylight, because the Major says: “Colonel Everett has command while Weir’s going shopping,” and his voice is even, but tense, as if he is tasting something sour but doing his best to hide the grimace. So the Major is no happier about it than anyone else. And J.J. unwillingly starts wondering, what exactly is making this Colonel Everett seem to be more foe than friend?

(what if they can’t differentiate the two anymore  
because of the Wraith  
turning their minds against one another?)

He asks for orders, if there is any change; and the Major just says:  _Keep the City afloat, Corporal._

J.J. turns to locate his team. There’s work to do.

* * *

There aren’t any intruders, (except) the Colonel and his marines have come to haul their asses out of the fire;

* * *

Weir leaves within the hour, and there are a few chaotic moments afterward where no one is well at ease and is certain all of a sudden what to do. Maybe, maybe Weir has always been this rock and no one knew just how steady that rock was until now. She’s never left the City before. Always been there. Her voice available.

They’re standing guard by the doors of the Conference Room, he and Simmons, strictly routine. Within, the voices are growing in sharpness and strength. 

The lights are acting up again. J.J. frowns at the overheads, glaringly, and Simmons asks what’s up. Shrugs.  _Probably nothing_. Fluctuations caused by the Wraith’s unending fire on the shield, straining the grid, or something. He can’t think of a better answer. He’s not a technician or scientist, but he has stood on the balcony on Level 89, near the top of a tower, watched the fireworks display. The Hives are like dots far, far away, barely visible through the magma of plasma beams peppering the shield, making it glow pink and yellow. Dull thunder. They can still hear it.

Within, the Major is facing the Colonel and they can make out, now, barely:  ”You could use my cooperation, as well as that of everyone on this base, sir.” and the last word sounds forced and unwilling (the Major has always had issue with the brass, never planning on ending up CO himself, probably);

(there aren’t any intruders so why

is this...?)

A klaxon sounds. Not wholly unfamiliar. His hands itch to draw his gun but from here, below, what use would it be? A bullet couldn’t come within miles of the Hives. Only a drone could.

The doors fold open and Major Sheppard passes them by, headed in the direction that is probably the Chair Room - to try, if nothing else; he can still control that thing, even if the amount of drones available isn’t much to boast about, J.J. thinks, remembers reading about the incident in Antarctica. The poking around that led to the SGC finding out about the guy’s ATA-gene.

_What a weird day that must’ve been._

(and it’s only gotten worse since)

If he were in the guy’s stead J.J. would totally have requested a pay rise. Because flying choppers has to be one thing, and spaceships are the complete other side of the spectrum. Not to mention the aliens. Though, right. Disgraced Special Ops pilots don’t usually have much to say about pay rises. Briefly he wonders what’d happened if the Major hadn’t sat down in that Chair, nearly four hundred days ago. Probably still been acting chauffeur across the ice, or discharged. And, weirdly enough, J.J. finds it a bit difficult to imagine this base, this City, to be the same without the pilot, to be the same with Colonel Sumner or some stranger in charge.

It wouldn’t be the same at all.

* * *

 **Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado, U.S. · Earth · the Milky Way**  
**2004 (Terran time) · 408 days before the Uprising**

* * *

There is a briefing room hidden deep underground, and J.J. has been in here before, sure, carrying and receiving reports, greeting the other redshirts (because, honestly, that’s what they are in SG-1’s shadow). Dr Weir was the head of the SGC for a few weeks, and there’s been a lot going on during her time being Boss: Goa’uld messes, unexpected discoveries, the usual; but also talks abroad with foreign leaders and the UN and whatnot. Something about a research outpost in Antarctica, the signing of treaties, and the difficulty of the SGC being deeply military in nature. The Mountain is abuzz with it.

General O’Neill was lifted from the in the ice - some kind of alien stasis pod - less than two months ago and has now taken over command of the SGC. The scientists are even more vocal than usual, some major discovery and J.J. gleans from Hester, who in turn heard it from Morrison who’s dating this girl in the astrophysicist department, they’re going to do something big. An exploration far beyond the usual stuff. The finding of a lost planet, a lost city - something very far away, and Dr Weir is planning for it, with the help of Dr Jackson, Colonel Carter, and a whole bunch of higher-ups. The US President. So these meetings in the briefing room are getting more and more frequent, but J.J. has never actually been present for these himself.

New faces are starting to turn up, too. Not new teams - at least, they’re not send offworld on missions. No, this is different. There’s a newbie boot-camp on the Alpha Site on P4X-650, and J.J. spent the obligatory three weeks there when first recruited to the SGC, after all the paperwork and psych evals and non-disclosure agreements _(no, we can’t tell you anything about this top-secret very hush hush thingie until you sign this line here, please)._ Now there’s a sudden influx of people being sent there and it’s a bit weird. But weird stuff happens all the time around here, so he doesn’t think too much of it.

Today this new face isn’t a fresh-faced Lieutenant or even a Captain. It’s a full bird with lots of gleaming medals on his shoulders, and J.J. snaps smartly into attention, salutes. A USMC Colonel; so no General to suddenly demand command - then what for? The Mountain has always had quite a high density of brass, but a lot of that is Air Force, not marine. This is something else.

Next to the big man there’s a young Lieutenant - early twenties, dark skin, a small fiddly Dæmon obediently waiting in silence. J.J. has seen him around before, briefly, vaguely. Doesn’t think the kid is part of an offworld team (a lot of people aren’t), but has still gone through the Stargate once or twice. Back-up or recon or just some Gate Use 101, that crash course which is given all marines on base, regardless of their actual duties later; J.J. recalls his own tour - some fancy place with waterfalls and purple plants and five moons looming in the sky above, certified for its Goa’uld-freeness. The Captain in the charge of the mission had had them explore the terrain and dodge in’tar shots, gurgling after them in a voice modified to sound like a Snake’s (they’d all taken it seriously, off course. The guffaws came later).

He’d been in the gym lifting weights when the call came to get his ass down to sublevel 27; the Big Boss’ Lair. Martinez had shared a knowing look with him; muttered:  _AFI – Another Fucking Inconvenience,_ huh? and chuckled dryly. J.J. had thrown himself into cammies (there was no request for anything else specified). Rushed to the elevator. No alarms blaring: good. So no invasions undergoing. Great. Oh, he’s probably getting reassigned. Just when he’s starting to get comfy.

The Colonel looks at him and Juno who refuses to hide, proudly, and there are others too. _Where are all these newbies coming from?_ A woman – a Lance Corporal with a British patch - brown-haired, kind of pleasant looking. Her Dæmon is a black jaguar with an impressive set of claws. Whoa. Note to self: don’t piss her off. And another two guys, standing stiffly and the blond one looks to be severely needing some coffee like five minutes ago. J.J. glances at the clock mounted on the opposite wall, because time does get confusing in the perpetual grey darkness of the underground. 08:19.  _Not a morning person, then. If this still counts as morning._

And the Colonel introduces himself Colonel Marshall Sumner and says: “Corporal MacGrimmon, Lance Corporal Gladys, Lieutenant Kemp, Lieutenant DeSalle; congratulations, marines. You’ve been personally hand-picked for an expedition of particular importance. Take a seat.”

Then Dr Weir tarts talking about something called the Lost City of Atlantis and the possibility of going there.

* * *

It takes another sixty-eight days before it’s time to go – Leaving Day – and they’re gathered around the Gate, people and bags and crates in abundance. Lots of things to bring: everything has been packed carefully and checked and rechecked, lists written and copied and discarded, orders followed to the last. Dr Weir and Colonel Sumner have full control. Eyes on everything. Medicines, food, ammo, computers, generators; the basics. But seeds, too, for all sorts of edible things and trees and whatnot. Extra cloth and needles and thread, and ways to make more. Books. Not just digital copies but the actual hardware. (Those things weigh a ton.) Things needed for survival, for starting anew in a place with unknown gravity and atmosphere.

It’s starting to sink in that they’re not just leaving Earth. They’re going to another planet. Another  _galaxy_.

And they may not come back.

The jokes in place are the usual ones. The chatter. But it is kind of a little more subdued. Languages in multitude are spoken around them. It’s like a school trip on steroids, really, and the teachers are having a tough time keeping up with the impatient kids. J.J. stands near the entrance of the corridor, bulk heads open, with his team – what will be his team – they’re not really in team yet. A couple of offworld trips had helped, getting the sense of each other not just as individuals but as a group, greeting the natives as so-called SG-19 – they may have to call themselves something else later, once in Atlantis. 

 _In Atlantis._  Wow. The thought.

DeSalle looks bored. Or strained. Hard to tell. “Had your coffee yet?” Kemp asks cheerfully. “Remember, this might be the last day you get some proper brew.”

“Watch it.”

“All right, all right, all right. Don’t Hulk out, DeeDee.”

J.J. rolls his eyes. Gladys isn’t even listening, it looks like but she is, of course. She’s honestly the most alert one of them all. Has got the biggest brains (Kemp wastes his away but he’s proud to be a jarhead so he doesn’t care, he claims). She’s checking her P-90, her 9mil, the ammo, concentratedly (everything is clean as a whistle of course: Gladys would be the last person on this planet to fail with the upkeep of her gear). Her Dæmon lazily washes its paw with a sharply teethed mouth, a display of such casualness that one might think they’re off on a routine mission. A vacation someplace nice with long sandy beaches and crystalline oceans and swaying palm trees. And targets to shoot at.

“Hey, kids, try to act like professionals for a change.” As team leader he’s meant to be the responsible one, and keep an eye on them, keep them in line. Not that it always works.

“Yes, boss!” the two create a choir, waiting for a few seconds before they’re at it again. J.J. lets it be. It’s not every day you leave the galaxy and all. Tries to focus on his Bond with Juno instead, to gather his calm and his wits. Needs to be focused once they step through the Gate, ready for whatever is waiting on the other side.

The banter is just part of the buzzing murmurs and every marine, whether in a team or alone, is acting the same. Then, there is a pause, and J.J. frowns when Gladys lifts her head and he follows her gaze; there’s someone else, in BDU, grey, not clashing. Moving onward alone and in a way suggesting he’s never been in this part of the Mountain, and then J.J. remembers. That zoomie that suddenly – far too late – got chosen for the expedition too.

There are loads of rumors. J.J. has heard them all in one variation or another, in the mess hall, in the lockers, as part of offworld gossip. The thing which small communities thrive on. The guy might be a Special Ops pilot, disgraced, or a wash-out, or a spy (that particular rumor is all Thompson’s fault) – no one knows because no one has asked. Talked with the guy. Whispers are he has hung out with the scientists in the couple of weeks he’s been here. Chosen the nerds over the brawn. His Dæmon is this shy thing, too, invisible and they say it’s a critter or a bug. Poor bastard. The outlying outsider who Colonel Sumner doesn’t even want here, but General O’Neill and Dr Weir got their way and here he is. Striding through the crowd which gives him a wide berth like he’s contagious. He’s not like them, not a marine; probably lazed his ass off, got away easy, they keep muttering. Crashed a chopper in Afghanistan and faced court martial, and now he’s getting this special treatment by Dr Weir; what the hell is up with that?

What’s the guy’s name again?

As the guy moves closer and past them (look at that hair, nowhere near zero-three, definitely not regulation; guy looks stoic but, underneath that, out of his depth) J.J. pauses, having to stop himself from sharing comments with his team. Shares a glance with Gladys; she must be thinking the exact same thing. And Kemp is quiet for once, and DeSalle’s pinched expression worsens.

“Oh, look,” DeSalle says half-aloud. “It’s the Doc’s prodigal son.”

J.J. shakes his head. “Don’t think Dr Weir appreciates that rumor.”

(she hasn’t heard it, he thinks; or, if she has, she pretends as if she hasn’t; no one has ever seen her angry)

Then the guy has moved along and is on level with Sumner and his XO, Ford. The Colonel exchanges heated words, quietly, but too far away to be overheard in the din and then Dr Weir steps in front of the closed Gate for a speech. The words are nice, polished. Simple enough. The Stargate begins to turn.  _Chevron one locked – two – three_ ; the usual rhyme from the Chief tech above. The MALP sent through. The air is full of wonder as the first grainy pictures are reportedly returned.  _We’ve got viability_. No way out of this other than forward.

“All right, listen up! Move in your designated groups of three and four. Every carries their load. No stragglers,” barks Colonel Sumner. “Once we’re on the other side, find a place to park until instructed otherwise. Remember: anything or anyone left behind will be left behind once the Gate is offline. Security teams one and two, prepare to move out!”

“Please hold hands and walk in line,” Kemp whispers as the crowd surges forward, and DeSalle nearly slaps him over the head. Oh, that brings back memories, not-quite-but-maybe-fond, of SG-19 walking for the first time as a team to help with a basic relief mission, unpacking crates and distributing water, one month earlier. Really, nothing has changed.

“My luck to be stuck with a bunch of kids,” mutters Gladys, moving forward, unhesitating; Dr Weir has proclaimed that anyone not wanting to go through with this is free to leave. No one had moved an inch away from the Stargate. “Bunch of kids on testosterone.”

The Colonel and Dr Weir go first, backed up by two marines. Then there’s the XO, Ford, and the zoomie no one likes; a brief hesitation; then Ford surges inside with a whoop, laughing; still a kid. The airdale follows, tense like a bowstring. Figures that the zoomie hasn’t even  _seen_  the Gate until now, nevertheless walked through it. Forget about boot-camp – let’s bring some tourists! J.J. shakes his head in wonder. And they’re to trust this guy with their backs someday.

Their time comes. Packs heavy on their backs (double the usual weight: every marine has to bear it, to get as much stuff through as fast as possible), the shimmering event horizon looks both dangerous and inviting.

“Think we’ll still be SG-19, or get a new fancy number?” muses Kemp. “‘SG-19’ doesn’t really have a nice ring to it, not like SG-1. Think we’ll get a chance to be the new SG-1 on whatever this planet is called?”

“Shut up, Guy. Don’t ruin the moment.”

“J.J., my man, I am  **making**  the moment.”

* * *

 **Atlantis · Lantea · Pegasus**  
**2005 (Terran time) · seventy hours before the Uprising**

* * *

_I don’t fucking believe it._

The Chair Room is a fireworks show, but no fireworks or gunshots and it’s quiet except for loud breathing and Dr McKay’s shouting at the docs, and there’s the Major. Knocked out cold - no blood (thank fucking god no blood but what the actual hell?) and J.J. finds people elbowing their way forward, past him. A mixture of greys. And the light. The  **light** :

Something strange was happening. In the Control Room, the techs were talking, confused and baffled, as the shields held strong and suddenly drones rose - the few they’ve got - took out a Hive. Another. But there’s a dozen of them out there. And then the Jumpers had rose without anyone in them, and McKay had been shouting - again - something about a Chair, and a medic. And Emmagan and Ford and Sergeant Bates, they had all moved as one body. Followed. Now they’re here, and the Colonel and a couple of his men too, and Dr Beckett moves the defibrillator atop of the Major’s unmoving chest –  _clear_! – it’s still happening, and J.J. doesn’t understand, honestly: there’s no enemy here. No Wraith. So how can the Major be injured? 

The Jumpers had risen and the Hives been destroyed, one after the other, and the explosions had glittered like faraway gems in the sky.

There’s no heartbeat, just the flat line and the high whining pitch of the machine. Oh. God. Fuck. He’s dead, and it’s not the Wraith - so what, who, why,  _how_  –

And McKay shouts WAIT! and the doc actually obeys, what, no, no no no the brain can’t last for long without oxygen and without heartbeat the Major isn’t getting any, so why is McKay telling them to  _wait_?!  

“What the hell do you mean wait – McKay, he’s dying!” Ford is usually quick to laugh and a great kid and J.J knows he has the worst poker face ever, losing every game and still betting high. This fury is new to him to hear. Maybe AR-1 has heard it before, offworld. They’re team after all. But J.J. hasn’t, and Emmagan says, all too calmly: “Rodney, we have to save him.”

 _I thought they were friends_ , Juno reflects, dimly, as McKay still insist they wait wait wait - why would McKay want Sheppard harmed or dead or

(is this a Ghosting? heard about, the thing of movies and stories and they look terrifying on screen. a Ghosting  
except backward no body stilling no breathing

or is this like Dr Jackson - those weird reports; the doc had disappeared in a rising of light  
is this the same?)

* * *

And the light rises, it comes from above, no, from  **within**  Sheppard, it’s a part of him and it’s starting to hurt to look at, so sharp and singular and cresting into a thousand pieces; people are whispering and shielding their eyes, and a cry - Kemp, he thinks, that voice: or Sanchez, roughly: “What the fuck is that ... ?!”

He’s not a very religious guy, but right this moment, this moment ... It’s an Emergence. But that’s unheard of. That’s unheard of! The Major isn’t a newborn, isn’t a kid, this kind of think doesn’t just happen and, shit, that, that’s a Dæmon in the shape of a bird, deeply black and silent like nightfall; wings, splayed widely and it’s huge, that wingspan has got to be well over four feet, five; a raven? A raven. A raven!

This kind of thing doesn’t just  _happen_. 

The beepbeep beepbeep beepbeep of the machine tries to convince them of a resumed heartbeat, and the light fades, and then Sheppard’s breathing - stuttering that evens out, and eyelids flicker. Coming to; alive.

_What. the. fuck._

Movement by his side. Greene or whatever his name is. A P-90 loaded and raised - and McKay is shouting, again, again but this time as a shield - did he know? did he know this would happen and that’s why...?

“Don’t shoot!  ** _Don’t_** _fucking shoot,_  you morons!”

And suddenly J.J. wonders if McKay would gladly thrown himself down to catch a bullet if he had to. They’re team after all. It’s common knowledge that Sheppard would do the same for his team. For anyone in the City. He’s just like that. Never leave anyone behind - a mentality which he’d started distributing as soon as he was reluctantly handed command over the marines. At first there had been scoffs in the lockers and discussions in the mess hall, half-open _, the zoomie isn’t going to last a week_ – 

(and the days had turned into weeks and weeks into months and there is not one singular moment he can pinpoint where everything changed. it just did. slowly. surely)

It’s only momentarily distracting because - whoa, that’s a raven, it sure is, and it’s resting atop of Sheppard’s rising and falling breathing chest alive and warm and still glowing in the way of a newly Emerged Dæmon: fresh out of the womb. But it shouldn’t be possible ... it shouldn’t because that means, that means, Sheppard never had any Dæmon. before.

(a tiny thing, some kind of bug, hiding in his pocket. he  
keeps calling it  _shy_  like a name...)

Then finally Beckett seems to gain his wits, gathers his team, gives orders – a blanket, a gurney,  _now, hurry please and back away from the patient_ (Sheppard has slipped into unconsciousness) and J.J. shares a bewildered look with Gladys;

“At least it wasn’t Wraith,” she murmurs, quietly, as the odd pair is carried away to the infirmary under the Colonel’s wide-eyed glare, and J.J. almost shakily laughs.

“Yeah.” This situation definitely isn’t covered by the reg manuals.

“So that’s actually a Dæmon? His Dæmon? But I thought ...” Ford is whispering hotly to Emmagan – McKay is rushing ahead, rapidly walking alongside the gurney with his own cat-shaped Dæmon – and the Athosian says: “I have no doubts. Carson, may we join you in the infirmary?”

They’re team.  _Never leave anyone behind._

The doc sighs but beckons them to follow. J.J. stares after them.

“Wow,” says DeSalle finally. His voice doesn’t really sound like his, mismatched. Shaken out of his stupor. J.J. hadn’t even registered his presence. “So the zoomie’s Dæmon isn’t that tiny after all. Who’d’ve thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*"The Citadel" is an area of the City where the marines have their living quarters, armoury, a few training and recreational areas, etc. This is a no-civilian territory, mostly, apart from a shared gym._   
>  _*Sublevel 27 of the SGC Cheyenne Mountain Complex base is nicknamed "The Big Boss’ Lair" because that’s where the Base Commander’s office is located, and where the Base Commander mostly is found on-duty._   
>  _I’m working on assembling a sort of dramatis personae since I’m juggling so many characters at this point. I find I rather like writing from this POV, fleshing out characters that were just briefly mentioned in other fics in this series. Atlantis is occupied by more than five people, after all._


	4. falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _he’s never wanted to be witness to a Ghosting;_   
>  _who ever wants to be?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-03) Chapter updated/revised.

**iv.  
**

# falling

_he’s never wanted to be witness to a Ghosting;  
who ever wants to be?_

* * *

**Wraith Homeworld (M01-092) · Pegasus**  
**2004 (Terran time) · 333 days before the Uprising**

* * *

They’ve been in Atlantis for just a couple of weeks, and it’s AR-1s first offworld mission. Dr McKay’s complaining, his TAC vest too tight, and he doesn’t know how to handle a gun. Hasn’t been given one. Teyla has been given a crash-course, though, and she seems capable of defending herself; she’s a fast learner, and there’s this thing she calls  _banto’a_ , a style of sparring that makes Ford think of kung-fu but with sticks. She’s already offered to teach the Major once they’d set up a gym near the marine barracks (they’ve really got to figure out a better name for the place where only the military contingent lives and trains) - Ford hasn’t witnessed it in person, but yesterday in the communal lockers, he and Adria had stumbled on the Major with a towel slung over his shoulders, face drenched in sweat, and with fresh bruises on his forearms. Two  _banto’a_  rods had stuck out from his bag.

For Teyla, knowing the techs and the specs of the Tau’ri is just going to be a bonus, and the Athosian – though Aiden can’t claim to know her well – seems to be adapting to the Tau’ri and their Earth customs well enough. She and Kanaan are a bit odd, but Aiden figures it’s because they’re technically alien. Culture shocks and all that. At least his experiences with the SGC have taught him that much: don’t overlook the natives and their ways:  _They’re not inferior, just different. Difference, likeness, and worth are not the same._

While people in the Milky Way are usually oppressed by the Goa’uld, worshipping them as gods, people here in Pegasus are trying to survive under the shadow of the Wraith who want to  _eat them._

They’re still not really a team. A team isn’t automatically tight and trustful just because they’ve been given a designation and a mission. The brief had been simple: return to the planet where they’d rescued the Athosians and the captured marines, gather intel, stay out of sight. So they parked the Jumper a couple of clicks from where the Wraith base is meant to be, and cloaked it, leaving Markham and Stackhouse to guard it – the Major’s bringing them along as a piloting exercise.

They’ve got some twenty odd Puddlejumpers (McKay wanted to call them Gateships; the Major had refused, some kind of quirk of a zoomie probably) and only one real fighter pilot. Only one real pilot, period. Weir had agreed; if the Wraith ever make a run for Atlantis, they’ll need every advantage they can get. Plus, some Gates here are in space – none in the Milky Way are, as far as Aiden knows. They need more pilots.

Now they approach the Wraith base on foot except there’s a big crater and nothing else, and then they’re being hunted down by a scout party left behind, and the Major orders them to go down a fork in the road:  _I’ll draw them off_ –

Reaching the Jumper breathlessly – Teyla is more or less dragging McKay along, and the astrophysicist collapses on a bench muttering about not being some grunt – Aiden rushes into the cockpit, already shouting for Markham and Stackhouse get ready to take off – “Where’s the Major?”

“He circled around to draw them off. I’m going back.”

“What?!” cries McKay. “There’s a bunch of Wraith out there –”

“Yeah, and the Major’s out there too. I’m going. Stay with the Puddlejumper.”

Grabbing a couple of extra clips and reloading his P-90, Aiden orders Stackhouse to fly above them and try to locate the Major from the skies: then he’s off, and watches the Jumper lift from the ground in a slightly jarred manner.

They’d better not crash, or the Major’s going to be seriously pissed. He treats the alien spaceships like they’re treasures, and Aiden doesn’t want to be in the way when - if - the Major finds a single scratch on the dully green hull.

* * *

The trail is too damningly obvious and easy to follow; of course, since the Major had wanted to draw the Wraiths’ attention away from the Jumper and toward himself. Now, Aiden feels a bit like flying, himself, across the mossy earth, and then he skids to a halt sharply because there’s something very wrong:

The Major’s sprawled on the ground, clutching a 9mil, and there’s a creature like a bug wrapped around his throat stranglingly.

It can’t be his Dæmon. This thing is alien, and much bigger than what could fit in a pocket – it’s silently dangerous and the Major’s sweating, a clawed thing digging into his throat and then he sees him and Adria; Aiden curses, kneeling next to him. There’s no sign of the Wraith. If they followed, they just … left him like this. Didn’t try to feed. 

Why? Did they already consider him dead?

The alien bug is tightening its grip and the Major doesn’t plead for death or complain about pain, but whispers: “Teyla? McKay –?”

_Leave nobody behind._

“Safe,” Aiden promises – tries to promise – they still need to get out of there and he sure hopes that Stackhouse isn’t crashing the Jumper right now.

And the Major exhales, face consorting with pain and what the hell is that thing doing to him?

“Shoot it.”

The thing’s attached to the Major, who knows what kind of effect it’s have? But it can’t stay on him – Aiden would almost say it’s sucking blood out of him, like some kind of mutant leach with claws – maybe sucking more than blood; and he pulls out his handgun, and can’t help thinking of the shot he heard while in the Wraith base – Hiveship? – the shot cleaving through Sumner’s chest from Sheppard’s gun, smokingly:

“You ready?”

He doesn’t ready. He doesn’t look ready to die.

“Yeah.”

Aiden pulls the trigger.

* * *

The scream is terrible. Like Sumner’s Dæmon had cried, shouted, wept, within the darkness of the cell: except this voice is human, and raw, and it’s like he shot the man and not the bug.

Shit, shit, shit.

If the Major dies because of –

Then the Jumper finds them. Touches down in the nearby clearing, stirring the dead leaves; and Aiden waits until Teyla rushes out to meet them, and together they get the Major off the ground, into the ship.

Away.

* * *

Stuck inside the Stargate, half-way home, less than thirty-eight minutes left to live, the Major’s dying – the thing is like a Wraith, Teyla says:  _I’ve heard stories of such creatures; told to keep children straying too far from camp._

Nobody’s told her how to kill it.

And Aiden and Adria can only watch, watch and wait horribly as time goes by all too fast and they’re trying everything they’ve got: and the Major can’t move anymore, he says, can’t feel his legs, and fuck Aiden’s not ready to have another superior officer die, not yet, not yet, not ever –

There’s another scream, much more horrible than the first. Doesn’t stop until there’s no more breath in them man’s lungs and then an arm shoots out, strong enough to bruise and Aiden’s vision swims as he’s knocked sideways, backward, almost hiding his head on the sharp edge of the bench and he rolls over, grunting; and in surprise McKay crosses the crystals within the open panel, and they slide inside the wormhole two inches further. 

 

“D-don’t do that again.”

“I won’t, sir, sorry, sir.”

 _If they die, I don’t know how we’re going to handle it,_  Adria whispers, and Aiden cannot breathe, thinking:  _I don’t think we’re going to handle it._  

* * *

And their breaths are getting shallower by the minute and then the Major says:

“Hit me with the defibrillator.”

Aiden has seen people die. Not a lot, or often. But he’s been close to bullets, or at least the alien equivalents thereof.

He never thought he’d do this, though. Charging up the paddles. Bringing them to the Major’s chest, still rising up and down up and down up and down along with his threading pulse and, fuck, can he do this? It’ll kill him. If he can’t be revived …

“ **Do it**!”

An order.

Aiden is a marine. Has always prided himself as one: loyal, loyal to the last and obedient: following orders: not like a machine but thinkingly, thoroughly; not blindly, but if this doesn’t work, if this doesn’t work then both Colonel Sumner and Major Sheppard will have died within less than two weeks of the expedition and then  _he_  will be left as highest ranking military officer, thanks to being chosen XO; and he can’t he can’t he can’t

Aiden is a marine. He knows how to follow orders and the Major is holding his gaze and it’s steel-cold and terrifying: and he thinks of every word he’s ever learned, and if he doesn’t do this then the Major will die for certain and there’ll be no way of getting him back.

He knows how to follow orders.

He can imagine dad and mom and the Colonel and them all insisting, in heavenly choir:

_Be a good marine and follow this one._

* * *

The thing is, no one knows the true name of the Major’s Dæmon, or its exactly shape: its size, its color, its voice. No one but the Major knows, and there’s no name they can put on the gravestone;

The Jumper appears on the right side of the event horizon and Aiden and Adria are shuffled away on a gurney – the second of exposure to vacuum could’ve ended very badly but it didn’t and that’s what matters. They’re not hurt, though the doctors insist they’ve got to stay in the infirmary through the night.

Then Beckett moves onward, into the center of the Jumper, where Markham and Stackhouse are, dazed and wondering what the hell’s going on, and Teyla’s kneeling nearby as they get to work, the Major’s body all still and pale; and Aiden is moved out of sight, but thinks he can hear Weir murmuring to McKay:  _Well done,_ Rodney and the lamenting despairing answer:  _We’ll see._

And they’re in the infirmary when they wheel the Major inside and Aiden stares, exhaling, at the monitor clearly showing: he’s alive. They’re alive. Heartbeats.

Then they put up a privacy curtain between them, and Aiden reluctantly falls asleep. Next morning – technically midnight; they’ve slept for less than three hours – he inches out of bed, no wires tying him down, when Beckett isn’t there and no nurses are looking, and he peers at the person asleep in the other occupied bed: face gaunt, a bit pale still, though not as much as before. The place on his throat where the bug was attached is covered up neatly, all in patchwork white. There’s going to be a scar, probably, and that’s pretty cool, Aiden likes to think. If it doesn’t look too bad. If it doesn’t kill.

The Major’s asleep – not unconscious, out of harm’s way – and there’s a sense of relaxed relief to him which, come think of it, usually isn’t there. Usually, usually he’s – tenser, as if constantly on guard. If it’s due to his rank, or experience, or age, or just the place they’re in right now, Aiden isn’t sure and he’s not going to ask.

Adria watches, too. There’s a uniform jacket lying on the bedside table, right by the Major’s head, close by. There’s no movement; unsurprising, since the Dæmon usually is asleep when the human is.

 _Hey_ , Adria says, quietly across the Bond so not to disturb the sleeping man. They’re alive.  _We made it._

 _Yeah_.

That had been far too close.

* * *

In the Jumper, there had been no screams. When he’d stopped the Major’s heart,  
there’d been no evidence of a Dæmon ghosting.

If that’s good or bad, Aiden’s not sure.

_He’s never wanted to be witness to a Ghosting;_

_who ever wants to be?_


	5. insurgent, part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _is this becoming our new catchphrase?_ Juno wonders. _because it sucks._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-01) Chapter updated/revised.

**v.  
**

# insurgent

**part two**

_‘is this becoming our new catchphrase?’ Juno wonders.  
 ‘because it sucks.’_

* * *

**Atlantis · Lantea · Pegasus**   
**2005 (Terran time) · forty hours before the Uprising**

* * *

Normality is a word unused around here. Or, possibly, misused.

There are a few hours of still sudden silence and the Wraith haven’t gone, firing relentlessly. Not sending their Darts on Kamikaze runs anymore, though. The City has paused. Dr Weir is not here, her chair occupied by Colonel Everett, and the infirmary is a haven of chaos. The Gate Room is full of whispers. The Citadel is even worse. People hanging around restlessly, old expedition members warily mixing with newcomers during mealtimes. Sitting across separate tables. Murmurs. The rumor mill is livelier than in the early days when people were considering the possibilities of the Major and Emmagan being a couple.

Patrols are moving to and fro on the balconies. Watching. The shield is keeping the Wraith at bay - they cannot be reached here. But they cannot fight back, either, they don’t have the firepower - no ships - nothing. It’s going to be a Siege – it  _is_  a Siege. Didn’t they mention something like that during the history lessons about the Ancients? How the Wraith held them capture for months and years and centuries, on and on and on neverendingly and that’s what drove them to leave, to evacuate to Earth and never return?

They could do the same. Self-destruct. Just as planned.

If this had been a normal week - by Atlantis definition, at least - this would have been movie night. Digital copies had been brought along, creating a massive library of films and books and music, and had been an early instance of disapproval from Dr Weir about issues with content or legality, but quickly enough focus had shifted. Little things like that can make a huge difference, to make this City more than just a base. It’s become home, more or less, not always comfy or familiar, but they’ve got nowhere else to go. Oh, there’s a lot of debate. Once they got the ZPMs and the power to dial Earth - to build a better defense - and now, with the Colonel here, his marines to help. They could go to Earth and forget all this.

 _Then_ ... J.J. considers the possibilities for a moment: returning to the SGC as the secret astronauts. Calling mom and dad and the grandparents to tell them that he and Juno are alive and whole and not shot up. Tell them - not everything, that’s not possible, as long as the SGC is to remain a secret; but some things. About seeing amazing possibilities and knowing that maybe in the end it’ll turn out okay, despite the dangers because he knows there are some awesome things out there. Difficult to understand, to grasp. To come home – because after all this time; the Wraith hanging over them; would Earth seem the same? would it be enough? would it be home?

He could celebrate the birthdays – it’s September Earthside now, he could send a belated gift to Leah and Luke, it was their twenty-first four days ago. Something cool from outer space if the regs allowed it. Not that he could tell them it’s from outer space or, y’know: _I’ve been to outer-fucking-space._

“Anything new?” Lieutenant Clark Thompson, who’s joined them at their table, asks.

Most of his team, AR-7, is there; Yamato and Rutherford, playing poker. J.J. understands on a deep level: this urging longing for normality for normality’s sake. For the fun and laughter and games. There are Hiveships in the sky they’re trying to forget. Stackhouse is around somewhere; hanging out with Markham probably. Nothing unusual there. They’re practically joined at the hip (and suffering the jokes for it, too). Checking up on the Puddlejumpers in the Bay, killing time.

There haven’t been any new orders. Nothing, no plan of attack – just waiting. Waiting for the Daedalus to come like some deus ex machina and save their asses. Descend.

The mess hall is half-deserted at this hour, but both AR-7 and AR-4 have been on patrol, rounds finished half an hour ago. Old routines just to keep their feet moving. He and Gladys spent a little while on an open balcony by the South Pier, watching the shields. Glowing in reds and yellows and pinks. Would be pretty, he supposes, spread out on canvas. A painting. Not that pretty considering that the bombardment is actually energy that could tear the City to dust and all of them in it, if not for the shield.

This seems to be the hour of the scientists to shine. They’re trying to figure out a way to win this without access to the big guns. (Maybe they’ll build something big and cool? Set lose the fireworks.)

Kemp is poking around the plate, not really touching the food. Bored and tired and with nothing to do. Doesn’t answer the question with other than a shrug and J.J. is getting concerned. Kemp is never this silent, this withdrawn. Maybe it’s the situation, the alien spaceships above and the Major being down – but, hell, the Major has been down before. Causes hearts to leap into throats but he’s always pulled out fine; joke’s running now that the guy has the nine lives of a cat. Can’t be touched by anything, always bouncing back, whether it be a Wraith stunner or nasty bug or Genii invasion. Always coming out on top. So why wouldn’t he be fine this time around?

The food feels unusually tasteless and stale. J.J. isn’t that hungry, anyway.

“Nope. Nada. Zilch.” Gladys is tucking in her meal with gusto; got to boost the energy reserves and all that. “Nothing new about the Major. Bates is still in a meeting with Colonel Sourface.”

DeSalle isn’t even pretending to be eating. Leans in a bit, looking up from his PDA (playing Tetris or writing up a report: it could be either). “Sourface? More like Sourwolf,” he remarks, considering the shape of the man’s Dæmon.

“Seen Ford?”

“Infirmary, probably.”

Thompson shifts, restlessly. “I want to shoot something.”

“Join the club, Clark,” Yamato says, glancing up from his deck of cards. “Want to join? We’re betting duties around.”

“Nah.” A shrug. Takes a gulp of water.

“Nevermind him. He’s just a big bore,” says Rutherford and plays his hand, smirking smugly as Yamato lets out a vivid colorful curse. “Aaaand I win.”

Not sitting still, leg tapping impatiently: “Isn’t anyone else kind of, don’t know, worried?” Thompson asks, openly to the rest of the table, and J.J. shrugs. 

Maybe. Kind of.  _Kind of_.  That’s the worst part: not  _yes_ , but not  _no_  either. He’s worried about the uncertainties. The unasked questions and the unreliable answers. Like what the hell actually happened back there with the lightshow and the raven – though, it is kind of cool, when he thinks about it. A raven for a Dæmon; that’s pretty unique. It does fit the Major, got to admit that. Wings for the pilot. 

The Major is still in the infirmary, locked up and the nurses are making certain no one bothers him. He’s awake, that’s all. So: not dead - that’s good. Only the docs and his team are allowed in there, and Dr McKay has been spotted entering more than once, armed with datapads and sandwiches. The answers are so few and unreal. No one really knows what’s happened, or how.

Rumor is that the Major sent all those Jumpers to the sky to destroy the Wraith. J.J. thinks it could be true - has to be - hell, with his alien gene, it’s the only possible thing. No one else has sat in that Chair. Not that he can even pretend to grasp what that even means. He doesn’t have the ATA gene – Gladys has, though. Claims that sometimes it can be like a headache, a small one near the back of the left ear, itching until whatever tech nearby has been turned off or petted appropriately like some demanding pet. Her variation is weak by comparison to the Major’s – hell,  _everyone’s_  variation is weak by comparison to the Major’s. Wonder if that means his headache is ten times worse?

“Bet you all a week’s worth of clean-up duties that Bates chews the Colonel out within twenty-four hours.”

“Honest-fucking-ly, Kemp.”

“Hey, after the Doc and the Major, he’s the most high-up. I mean, Ford seems kind of busy.”

That’s what teams do: stay around, support each other, especially in the aftermath of an injury. But Ford’s not just a teammate, he’s Sheppard’s XO. He’s got other duties, can’t just linger in the sick bay bringing flowers and get-well-cards. Man, that level of responsibility has got to suck sometimes, even though it comes with privileges. The Lieutenant has been rushing from the infirmary to the Control Room to talk with the Colonel about something – the impending doom; the Wraith ships in the sky; the uncertainty of when the Daedalus will get here. It must’ve launched by now in order to make it in time, and there’s no way to know. The Earth won’t have a ZPM to power the Gate. 

Will the Doc have succeeded in her mission to get them some drones? Was it all for nothing?

For now they’re just waiting, and that’s the worst thing.  _The deep breath before the plunge_... Juno whispers, and J.J. grins wryly. Doesn’t dare to laugh too loud. They’re not out of the woods yet, not by a long shot.

And what the fuck happened back there?

_Going to yield an interesting report for sure._

* * *

If a report is published, J.J. doesn’t get the chance to read it.

There’s a plan for survival, comes the word, hours and hours later: We’re going fly the City away from here.

Because J.J. and the rest of them have almost forgotten that the City isn’t just a City. It’s a _giant spaceship_ with a stardrive and, wait,  _what_? They’re going to  **fly**  the City …?

Dr Weir’s back, some drones with her, but the scientists and tacticians and the Major – back on his feet, with a raven, a  _Raven_  on his shoulder – they’ve realized they cannot survive a Siege forever. The Wraith will multiply and get more ships and there’s nowhere on the face of this planet that is safe, that will ever be safe. It’s laughingly obvious, really, the way they put it. A self-destruct was always the idea. A faked one – just a slight modification.

The Daedalus just landed.

Orders are given to get the civilians to designated areas and secure all loads (“Take-off might get a bit bumpy,” as the Major so cheerfully puts it, and J.J. can’t honestly look away from the imposing shadow of the Raven). Once they’re in hyperspace it’ll be fine, a smooth ride. Simple and easy and then they’ll reach their new home. Easy as pie.

* * *

First they have to drop a nuke.

 _“Attention all personnel, prepare for detonation flash!”_  cries Dr Weir’s voice over the City’s intercom, and they all crouch and cover their eyes and turn off computers and PDAs. There’s a great far-off boom, a sound-wave that penetrates the shield, a low rumble that cannot be properly described and everything rattles like in a minor earthquake for a two seconds, three, four. Then it stills, and the light recedes, and they can uncover their eyes again.

“Really hope the shield protects us from all radiation,” mutters Kemp. “I’m not insured otherwise, and I want grandkids someday.”

“I really think you should never consider even having kids,” Gladys says with distaste.

Then they hear Dr McKay – obviously not speaking to them at all, but to the Major in the Chair: _“All right, Major. The sky’s clear and we are raising shields again; activate the inertia dampeners. You have a go for launch.”_

And the City rises. 

* * *

**Hyperspace: approaching New Lantea (exact location unknown) · Pegasus**   
**2005 (Terran time) · two hours before the Uprising**

* * *

“I don’t believe it.”

 _Is this becoming our new catchphrase?_  Juno wonders. _Because it sucks._

“I saw it,” Sharpe repeats, the technician looking as if she doesn’t really trust her own words. And why would she? News and rumors always spread quickly in the City, and sometimes it’s really weird stuff, but  _this_  ... This is just not right. It’s like there’s half a story missing somewhere and they’ve just been witness to the climax without context. “They walked right past me. He wasn’t restrained, but they’d taken his weapons, and they were definitely heading for the Detention area - I know a prisoner escort when I see one.”

That doesn’t make any sense. Any sense at all! J.J. feels his hands twitch, wanting to reach for a weapon – he’s in basic uniform, not outfitted for war; ”Heard what they said or anything? Who ordered it, anyway?” The Major isn’t the enemy. Isn’t a Wraith or a traitor or a danger so why – is it his Dæmon? Because, sure, it is kind of freaky and creepy, in a way, but that’s not a reason, not a cause to lock him up and take away his gun and his authority! Right in front of Dr Weir and AR-1 no less. It doesn’t make sense. Where’s this come from, anyway? Why now? Why not twenty-four hours ago, when the Major was still stuck in the infirmary? Or did whoever responsible just wait until the Major was back on his feet out of courtesy?

“Has to be Colonel Sourwolf,” Kemp says. Insists. Repeats. “Bates isn’t that much of an asshole. He wouldn’t allow it. What’s even happened? Why’d they do that?”

Sanchez rounds the corner then. Doesn’t seem that surprised at finding them there, gossiping away, and the old scar across his face seems to darken in the gloom of the quiet corner they’re occupying. “You’ve heard, then?” he says, unprompted, and J.J. nods hesitantly.

Sanchez isn’t a guy to spread undue rumors or believe them. If he knows something it generally tends to be true. And he says: “Yeah. Simmons and I were there, outside the Conference Room. AR-1 and the Doc were discussing something private, along with the Colonel. He left and came back less than an hour later with a security team – five of them, armed. They’ve taken stunners from our armory – still got them; Private Lindsay reported a number of them unaccounted for just a few minutes ago.”

“What?”

_Don’t let that become our catchphrase either.  It sucks too. We don’t want to sound eternally confused._

“Gets worse,” Sanchez continues. “The Colonel orders the Major’s arrest, and then rescinds Weir’s command completely. Then he takes a shot at the Major’s Dæmon, right there by the Control Room, in front of witnesses and all.”

“What?!”

(a chorus)

A nod. ”I saw his Dæmon, it’s up there in the rafters now - you know how high the ceiling in the Gate Room is. Didn’t even do anything, didn’t attack. Guess they didn’t want Sheppard to escape. I don’t know how, but it’s still up there and looks fine, maybe they can handle more distance between them than normal ...”

“This is absurd. We’re to obey Colonel Sourwolf now?” Hester from AR-5, also present, mutters. Apparently the name has caught on. “Guy doesn’t have a clue about anything around here. Hasn’t even seen a Sucker in person.”

“The SGC sent him though,” says Kemp, a murmur, glancing around. “They wouldn’t send someone who’s ... Well, would they?”

Sharpe crosses her arms. “Sometimes I wonder.”

“The Doc is talking with Ford and Bates about it now, but the Colonel’s trying to stop them from contacting the Major and everything,” says Sanchez. “It’s, it’s real quiet ... too quiet. He’s got people guarding doors, switching comm channels, that kind of thing. Dr Z saw a whole bunch of them heading eastward on the internal sensors.”

And DeSalle says: “So that why Greene’s acting so weird. He wouldn’t talk with me anymore.”

“I know something’s up, I  _know_  it.”

“Then we got to do something,” J.J. says, but _what_? this kind of territory is dangerous and they’re discussing it like – like it’s the necessary thing to do because, hell, they shot at the Major’s Dæmon? what? that can’t be right. They’re not the enemy. They’re not meant to be the enemy; the Colonel and his people were sent to help them against the Wraith. Marines wouldn’t – shouldn’t – try to shoot down an ally, and the Major, he’s the one who’s helped them, who flew the City with his freaking mind, the one who took down the Genii and saved the City; he’s the good guy; what the hell is going on?

“Yeah,” DeSalle agrees.

“I’m not going to report to Colonel Sourface while the Major’s locked up,” Kemp says, suddenly angrily. He’s not always the irresponsible clown of the team.

“Not here,” Sanchez says, hurriedly. Doesn’t glance around in an obvious way but suddenly they don’t feel … They feel watched, and J.J. shivers, no, this can’t be right; this can’t be right. Atlantis is the safe place. Strange and alien, but safe. Has become home, and now they can’t speak openly in her halls? It’s not right.

It’s  _not **right**._

_They’ve got to do something._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Sucker" is a common name for the Wraith among the marines, called so from the way they feed, sucking the life out of people with their hands. Similarly they tend to refer to Goa'uld as "Snakes" or (people taken as ho) "Snakeheads"._


	6. (if nothing else) fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _there is a storm coming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2016-06-12) Thank you everyone for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos!!  
> (2018-04-01) Chapter updated/revised.

**vi.  
**

# (if nothing else) fear

_there is a storm coming._

* * *

**Atlantis · Lantea · Pegasus**   
**2005 (Terran time) · 189 days before the Uprising**

* * *

> _Hi, Sheri. It’s Aiden._
> 
> _It’s been a pretty messed up few days. I wish I could call and tell you in person, but it’s not like we’ve got universal roaming out here. You might never read this email, but I really just wish I could tell you. Hope you’re doing good, that the situation’s better - I said I was going to help you, rough up the landlord a bit. I’m certainly in the mood for it now._
> 
> _We were attacked. Me and Adria are OK, though, don’t worry. The base was attacked ..._

* * *

There is a storm coming. Teyla is flying to the mainland, where the Athosians have settled, with the Major when they radio back and then Aiden finds himself abandoning a gym session for an urgent senior staff meeting. A storm is coming: a big one, huge. And at first Aiden is surprised and laughs nervously because  _really_? One single storm? They can handle that, can’t they? It’s a big City, it’s ten thousand years old and  _alien_  and surely -

But McKay shakes his head and says that no, no it won’t stand it. Because they don’t have a shield. Without a shield Atlantis is brittle like a sculpture of ice about to sunder, and they can be shot to pieces from orbit or, as it were, be torn apart by wind and rain and thundering waters. The waves will split the City apart and shatter its towers. Not that McKay says it like that. More panicked and less poetic, and with the usual We Are Doomed-look on his face. So they’ll fix it, Aiden thinks. They always do. This is the SGC! They  _always_  fix it!

* * *

 _This ain’t right,_  Aiden thinks as they begin packing up. Emptying the City, taking the necessities only, primarily. Counting heads and gathering everyone. Evacuation. They haven’t got an Alpha Site yet, not a proper one, but they are sending teams to check up with neighbors if they can take at least temporary refuge somewhere out there. 

Abandon the City.

“Didn’t think we’d fight all those bad guys only to be taken out by some puny storm,” Stackhouse remarks while they’re loading up crates.

“Yeah,” Sanchez agrees, wiping sweat from his brow, the white scar across the bridge of his nose standing out sharply in the dim light. “Could’ve used one of those alien batteries right about now.”

From the pictures Aiden saw it didn’t look so puny - stretching across the horizon, much bigger than any storm on Earth could ever be – but Stackhouse has got a point. This _ain’t right._  They shouldn’t be going down like this, retreating from an enemy they can’t even fight. Go down wastefully, not even against the Wraith or whatever. A wall of wind and water;

“Yeah,” Thompson says, huffing sarcastically. “What’s the use when we can’t shoot at something to get things done?”

* * *

Then the (supposedly) brilliant plan of survival emerges. Dr Z and McKay interrupt Weir while she’s about to make a City-wide announcement - everyone already knows, of course. Word spreads faster than fire in dry grass around here. The plan involves something about lightning, and in order for it to work they need to empty the City. Essential personnel only. And they’ve got to help the Athosians too because the storm will strike the mainland and probably level all of it down, grind the trees to dust. All marines are assigned duties by the Major and Bates, and everyone else with their hands free volunteers to help. A group effort. Aiden’s pretty proud of that, their efficiency.

Everyone with the ATA-gene is required to ferry Jumpers to and from the mainland with people and things, including Dr Beckett. It’s a tense and wobbly ride (Aiden has gotten so used to the Major’s smooth flying that this is almost a shock). But they land safely and set to work. The Athosian camp steadily melts away. Their crops finally prepared and sown, the hunting grounds carefully learned - it’s all left behind. They’ve got allies out there, though, so hopefully food won’t be an issue. Still. It’s kind of sad to watch it all and their drawn faces, and still know how used the Athosians are to this kind of life. Always running and hiding and fleeing and never knowing peace.

Maybe a storm is preferable to the Wraith. The Wraith have spaceships. This storm won’t come haunt them on some other planet.

The irony.

* * *

“Everyone onboard?”

“There are three young hunters out there,” Teyla says. “They have not yet returned.”

“Great,” Aiden mutters on his breath. Everyone else has left: it’s just them and Dr Beckett in a single Jumper. The doc’s Dæmon is already skittish and nervous, curled up in the Scot’s lap where he’s sitting by the flight controls looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “All right.” Straightens his back, decisively. Peers out the back of the open ship. The skies are grey and the wind is really starting to pick up. It tastes salt. “We’ll wait.” They can’t just abandon the three Athosians left.

He just hopes they’ll make it in time.

He reaches for the radio. “Dr Weir, this is Ford. We are still on the mainland waiting for a couple of stragglers. What’s the situation?”

The response is quick but breaking up slightly. Interference.  _”We have evacuated the City and are on our way to disconnect the grounding stations,”_  she replies.  _”We’ll be waiting for you.”_

The City is emptied but for her, McKay and the Major, and Miller and Jenkins left to guard the Gate: they’ll probably be leaving with them, once the Athosians get here. It can’t be soon enough.

The knot in his stomach is tight and tense, and Aiden figures that this bad feeling is just because of the storm and the obvious danger it presents. That it’s because the City is so vulnerable and what if the plan doesn’t work? what if the lightning strikes don’t give the City power and the shields fail? what if a giant wave drowns them all first? what if?

* * *

It’s been well over an hour now and he has tried to contact Weir again, to say that they’re still waiting, but he can’t get an reply. Maybe it’s just interference, just static. The storm is growing more heated every minute and they’ve shut the Jumper now, sealed themselves inside. The sky is blurry and the rain is harsh, the field of vision severely limited; and finally the stragglers arrive, finding them, and they’re soaked through. Whatever they were hunting must’ve fled because they are empty-handed and shivering. The doc and Teyla get them wrapped up in dry, warm blankets.

He tries again: “Atlantis, this is Ford, do you read?” Switches channels, to the team one, hoping that McKay or the Major may be listening: “Major Sheppard, this is Ford, please respond.”

A heartbeat of silence but for the thunder outside. The doc has already increased the Jumper’s gravitational pull to ground it further to the soil beneath, to stabilize it. At least this way a wind can grab them and crash them into a tree or swirl them into the heart of the storm.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Maybe it’s the storm, affecting the radio signal,” says Beckett, worriedly, as he takes seat again, the Athosians seen to. Teyla is speaking with them softly, explaining the plan once they get away from the mainland.

“All right. Let’s go.”

“No! Look at it out there, son! We’ll break apart.”

“So will we if we stay here!” he cries. The doc can’t be serious!

They’ve got to fly away.

They’ve got to fly away. 

* * *

After far too long, the radio crackles and it wasn’t interference - sure, the signal is weak, but it punches through, and it’s the Major and his words are all wrong.  _”We’ve got an incursion,”_  he says, and Aiden’s eyes widen.  _”A small Genii strike team has gated in, taken the Control Room.”_

Miller and Jenkins are by the Gate; wouldn’t they have -

They would’ve fought until –

 **Shit**. ”Sir, what do we do?”

_“Some backup would be nice. They’ve got Weir and McKay hostage.”_

“Hostage? did you say hostage?”

It doesn’t compute.

“Oh, god,” whispers Beckett. 

A tense exchange of looks and they realize, they can’t. The doc’s right, the storm would break them apart, there’s no way the Jumper could fly through this and land in one piece. Maybe the Major could’ve managed it somehow, he’s a proper pilot, he knows this kind of stuff, but ... And they’ve got the three Athosian hunters on board. On their own they may have risked it, but with civilians present?

And they rely the words and Teyla says: “I am sorry, Major, but we cannot risk it.”

The Major answers: _“I’m sorry too. Okay, stay put until you figure something out. I’ll deal with this. Get your asses here as soon as you can.”_

“Yes sir,” Aiden says, instinctively, and the connection is cut.

_Fuck._

* * *

_‘I’ll deal with this’_  – the casual remark with that underlying icy anger which Aiden has rarely seen before; it was present when Teyla was accused of being a spy by Bates, in the aftermath of McKay getting stunned (shot right in the face) and falling in the center of the Gate Room. That time, the Major had scooped up the doc’s Dæmon in his jacket carefully silently immediately, and whoa, had _that_ started rumors. Aiden had stared, because, well – touching a person’s Dæmon even through layers of cloth, that’s the thing happening between wives and husbands and lovers, sometimes fond siblings, sometimes deeply fond friends but, but  _that_? he hadn’t expected that, though in hindsight it’s so damn obvious. 

(And the Major had shrugged off his jacket, the one with the pockets wherein one of which his tiny Dæmon is (has to be) hidden; so simply as if it was the easiest choice to make in the world.)

 _‘I’ll deal with this’_  turns out to mean ‘ _I’ll kill them all’,_  and Aiden is a marine and he knows death. He knows what bullets can do, and bodies shouldn’t disturb him as much as they do.

It takes hours too many before the eye of the storm lands above them, and they fly through it and the storm is approaching Atlantis rapidly and the grounding stations still aren’t all fixed. Once they’re close enough they can pick up the radio chatter and there’s the Major, so tauntingly saying like a chuckle: 

_“Let me tell you what you did wrong here, Kolya! One: you lost two of your men. Two: your people shot up the fourth grounding station, which means that there’s no way to raise the shield and we’ll all die as the City collapses anyway.”_

Kolya? Must be the Genii strike force’s leader.

They leave the Jumper in the Bay, the three Athosians inside - they’re hunters, not warriors. They haven’t got the training to handle P-90s anyhow, and one of them is just a kid. Beckett presses to come with him and Teyla. Aiden doesn’t think it’s a good idea, but presses a 9mil in his hand anyway, and Beckett can use the lifesigns detector to their advantage. They pass through the corridors hoping they remain unseen, that the Genii haven’t hacked into the computers and got control of the internal sensors. Maybe they do: they’ve got hostages. McKay. Could torture him and Weir into submission, until they give them the passwords and control.

Listening. Kolya, whoever he is, has a voice that’s gruff and slightly humored. Like this is a game of chess and he’s got control of both the king and the queen, and all Atlantis has got is a lonely knight.

(He doesn’t know that other pieces have joined the board.)

* * *

And they find the first bodies: they’re collapsed in a maintenance hallway on the fortieth level. The angles suggest they were attacked from above. Clear shots. To the head; to the Dæmons themselves, and it’s what they are trained to do if they can, instructors saying that it’s the simplest cleanest quickest kill there is. The Major hasn’t shot to injure, to merely incapacitate, to take them prisoner. He isn’t asking questions. Aiden briefly remembers those rumors in Cheyenne and the whispers, just a wash-out, a lazy nobody, disobeyed direct orders – and the truths: he’s Special Ops. Not just a pilot.

(He could’ve been a good marine if he was better at following orders.)

The whole story doesn’t make sense until later. Once in the Gate Room, the shields raised, lightning coursing through the City’s halls. There are bodies here too - a handful of Genii managed to escape in the last second but not this man who was named Kolya. Aiden and Teyla breach the room, Beckett in tow. Kolya’s standing in front of the blue event horizon clutching Weir to him, gun pointed not at her head but outward, and there’s the Major; and Kolya might’ve been on the verge of saying something. Smirked or taunted. Dragging Weir with him to the other side, but the Major doesn’t let him. It takes only one shot and the other Genii are already all dead.

McKay is curled up on the floor by the console holding his Dæmon close, he’s pale and like in shock though there’s no blood on him - he’s silent, a rare thing and Aiden doesn’t reflect on it at first, adrenaline rushing pounding loudly. Beckett kneels next to the doc, asking something. The reply is nonexistent. The storm breaches the atmosphere but the shield is holding, McKay having pressed the final button in time, and the walls aren’t shaking but almost. The onslaught will last for hours.

There are two other bodies. Their uniforms aren’t Genii, and the bullets have torn through their sternums and throats and killed them swiftly. Executed where they stood. Their Dæmons lie next to them, pristine and quiet.

Aiden is angry and he’s all hot and confused; people have risked death in the field before, but they’ve been invaded this time, the Genii took them like the storm. They didn’t give Miller and Jenkins a chance.

They didn’t give them a chance. 

* * *

(And the Major had retaliated; it hasn’t struck until now, the way he moves, the way he doesn’t waste ammo.

For the first time Aiden feels the flutter of something other than loyalty and respect:

a sliver of fear) 

* * *

The City is a mass of computers and it records everything, or has the ability to. This is the moment they find this out.

There’s video footage, clear and full of color and noise. Afterward, Weir gathers Bates and Aiden and Teyla – the Major is with McKay, someplace, silently, and no one has asked him to be here, for once.

The footage is stark in its simplicity: the Genii gating in using a generic help-us-IDC, a female voice crying:  _We’ve been Culled, we are the only survivors, we have wounded, please help us!_  and Miller lowers the shield – how could he not have? They cannot deny civilians help. And the shield is lowered, and a group of people wade in clad in browns and greys, covering their faces and their hands. And Miller and Jenkins rush down the stairs to meet them, worriedly. Radioing Dr Weir that refugees are coming in.

Contrary to popular belief people don’t jump back when they’re shot. Sometimes it’s a knee-jerk reaction to the sharp pain the shock the gunfire. Body-armor is useful and tough, but there are weaknesses. Open throats. A Dæmon unprotected because they always follow close by their human and this time didn’t expect pain or fear. This is close-range and the Genii can clearly see them, and neither marine have raised their weapons or clicked off the safety. They crumble too swiftly to call for help, and the Genii step over and past them, uncaring. The blonde woman, the one who’d cried out the fake plead for help – Aiden recognizes her. It’s Sora. Her father, one of the Genii’s chief scientists, had died aboard that Hiveship that they had helped the Genii to infiltrate weeks and weeks ago, where they had gotten their hands on a device to help them track the Wraith ships. She’s dressed like a soldier.

It all unfolds after that. Weir and McKay being held hostage. Acastus Kolya sending his men to find the Major, who hasn’t finished disconnecting the final grounding station yet and it being destroyed by weapons’ fire in an attempted ambush; the questions and the retorts and McKay being asked about the plans to save the City because Kolya says:  _Why raze a City when you can seize it?_

But McKay has more guts than Aiden’s given him credit for. He resists. Refuses to answer. Mutters something sharp and sassy; and then Kolya grabs McKay’s Dæmon by the scruff of her neck with his bare hands, and all Hell breaks loose. Because until that second the Major was seemingly willing to cooperate, to negotiate; offering C4, the Wraith data device, to bring them in person and deliver a Jumper to fly them away. But now he silences, and they watch the footage wordlessly – Bates and Weir they’re all upset because McKay might sometimes be annoying (all right: all the time), an asshole with an ego as high as the skies and little to no people skills. But he doesn’t deserve to have his Dæmon touched and taken from him by force. No one deserves that

The Major’s fierce response is understandable but, also, Aiden can’t help but wonder, how did the Major know the exact second this occurred? He wasn’t in the Control Room, he couldn’t see it.

Maybe he could hear it.

The Genii send for reinforcements. The Major is on a roll by then. Has left a trail of bodies and emptied smoke grenades and ammo shells through the City, and the Genii are attempting to pursue in vain but cannot track him. Disables one of the naquadah generators and then a second and moves onto a third, ignoring the handwritten sign declaring VERY VERY DANGEROUS, DON’T TOUCH as made by McKay, who isn’t struggling, isn’t snarking back against the attackers. Silence forced.

The Major doesn’t seem very bothered about the possibility of dying. 

 _Like usual,_ Aiden almost laughs but can’t when they watch the Major enter the Control Room, remorselessly shooting at anything that moves. Kolya isn’t there anymore, having moved Weir and McKay to fix the damaged grounding station underneath the icy whipping rain. The Major rushes forward, raises the Gate shield. The dull thuds of people trying to come through only to be disintegrated for good doesn’t cause him to frown. Sora swirls around, shouts;  _There he is! shoot him!_

They count to fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven before the Gate shuts down and all goes quiet.

What they cannot explain is how the City – or  _why_  the City – started recording; there is no command, no input, they can find in the logs; no one told the City to do this. As if it knew it might be necessary. However it did it, they’re both grateful and torn. Writing the reports will be easier, they have more data now. The Major is tight-lipped. Doesn’t say much about the hows or whys or anything, just:  _I did what I had to do._ And Aiden figures that some people may be tempted to find the footage and copy it and distribute it. Find harsh gleaning joy in the blood, to  _ooh_  and  _aah_  a bit over the Major’s ingenuity and determination and marksmanship.

But Miller and Jenkins are on there too.

Miller and Jenkins are there too.

* * *

Clean-up takes a while. To get the stains out. Volunteers get mops – _No, not that one; the blue ones are for blood, not the whites!_  nurse Kinsey had shouted, upset and in control at the same time; the medical staff knows this stuff. They’re the only ones to have handled blood in the City before, during surgery - not during shootings. 

This hit had been too close to home. If the Genii can gain the intel to attack them at their weakest moments, who else can? 

(The Wraith cannot be far behind.)

They ponder what to do with the bodies. The Genii attacked them so coldly but they’re still human. They aren’t Wraith. No one around here will mourn them, though. No one wants to give them a proper funeral and honor them in any way, and the Major doesn’t even comment on it. Distracted. He’s spending time in the labs with McKay, who still is in some kind of shock and stupor of silence and Aiden wants it to stop. McKay might be annoying, with his high horse and lack of social skills but this isn’t him, and it’s unnerving. Weir has forbidden AR-1 to go on missions until McKay is more back to normal - until he’s better. Has probably got sessions with Dr Heightmeyer; Aiden isn’t sure, it’s not the kind of thing people talk about.

The funeral is held two days later. Once the initial mess has been cleared. Reports written. It’s still not entirely dealt with, won’t be: it’ll linger for weeks, for months. Last wills and testaments looked for and confirmed: Miller and Jenkins didn’t want to die out here, this way. Jenkins had thought he’d die on Earth. Wants his ashes released in the Great Canyon; went hiking there as a kid with his dad. Miller doesn’t specify. Doesn’t have much, whispers of an orphanage; he’d never talked about his childhood with anyone. Aiden recalls the movie nights. They’d bonded over  _Alien_.

They gather in front of the Stargate. Everyone is there. Weir says a few well-chosen words; the Major is quiet, mostly, except he says something too, Aiden isn’t sure if he can remember it right, fighting to be still because he’s a marine marines are tough they don’t cry but, fuck, this is so unfair, this is so fucking unfair; and they’ve met death before but never in Atlantis itself. The City has always been (relatively) safe even without a shield. Remembrance: cannot recall the words, only the shadows of the bodies, the Dæmons unmoving. 

(Loss on home soil, it’s different, it’s harder. Strikes more vividly. He can’t remember who told him that, if anyone did. Maybe the notion of it is universal. Too close to home and everything hurts just a little bit more;)

The memorial silent minute after, the candle-lit Chapel is packed and hats are off and everyone is silent. 

Everyone is too silent.

Eventually status quo will return again; eventually;   
eventually.

* * *

AR-3 is splintered, the worst thing that can happen to a team. Weir and the Major debate, and so do Tyler and Evans, the AR-3:s two only survivors. Aiden liked to sit with them in the commissary, or to spar, but now Tyler and Evans have gone real quiet, too. They’re pissed. When Oakley and Johnson are reassigned to become part of the team, it’s clear it’ll take a while for them to accept it.

A team is like a family. It’s a unit that either works or it doesn’t (the Major has always been adamant that is should work: if there’s a problem, they can take it up with him; he refuses to let things be less that good if he can do anything about it). And AR-3 had really  _worked_. 

“This sucks,” Tyler says, not looking at him. Standing on a balcony, staring at the unmoving waters. Aiden and Adria find him and his Dæmon there, and if it looks like he’s been crying, no one mentions it. 

“Yeah.”

Evans is in the gym, punching sand bags and they have to give him some time to cool off before approaching.

An angry sigh. “Why did those sonsofbitches have to go and be so stupid and die?”

In a game of poker, weeks ago, Aiden was so proud to win himself a bottle of scotch which Hester had smuggled with him (not the only one) and so daringly gambled away. Then Aiden had hid it safely in his room, and so much has been going on, he thought he’d save it for a celebration of some kind: a birthday, a promotion, something fancy. Now though it really needs to be opened, and he pours some for them both in the plastic mugs borrowed from the kitchen (promising to bring them back: every single item is valuable here). Offers Tyler a mug and he accepts, wordlessly. Raises it skyward.

 _To John Miller,_ Tyler says and smiles.  _To Darrell Jenkins. Semper Fi, brothers! A guy couldn’t ask for a better team. Semper Fi._

There’s not a single cloud in sight.

* * *

The City recorded all data from the invasion, including the address dialed as the Genii fled: Sora had escaped, and a brown-haired lanky man whom Aiden hasn’t seen before. No name. Wasn’t introduced during their previous brief alliance. Does it ever matter? Names mean nothing; they invaded the City;

AR-1 goes – minus McKay – joined by AR-4; Weir is hesitant; the Major insists. There could be something there, a clue. They send a MALP: it’s night on the other side, and armed with stunners (Weir’s idea) and night vision goggles they go. Hoping to find something. Preferably someone to interrogate. They need to know if this action was backed by the rest of the Genii, or if Kolya acted alone - as alone as a strike force of over sixty people can be. Was this an isolated incident?

But the planet is empty. No doubt dialed in haste, and then the surviving Genii moved on to home or wherever their base of operations is. They take a copy of the data stored on the DHD’s crystals anyway - up to fifty of the last addresses dialed. One of them might be a hit. The mission is swift, and Aiden feels it’s rather useless. This way they won’t get to the people who killed Miller and Jenkins, and this thirst for revenge is not altogether new but still frightening. The man at the centre, the one who’d touched McKay’s Dæmon, he’s already dead. Bullet tore through his head and passed through his brain turning it to mush, and Aiden remembers the details far too well; he’s dead. But the handful who escaped – they’re still out there. They have knowledge about the City, its security, its tech – about  _them_. What if there are more?

Sorting though and investigating all those planets on the list will take weeks. Months. Might lead nowhere.

It’s a dead end. They try, anyway. They always have to try.

(The Major insists.)

The days pass into weeks and the trail goes ever-colder. AR-2 handles a lot of those missions, and AR-5. There are other things to see to, too. Supplies to gather, food to trade for, alliances to make, discoveries to unwrap. McKay regain his voice, his candidness, returns to stealing coffee and cookies; he and the Major remain close, constantly bickering and arguing, and the Major is surprisingly willing to let McKay pickpocket his powerbars (maybe because they’re disgusting); and soon Aiden begins to forget the silence.

Especially once they find a planet with an Ancient on it – a  _real_  proper Ancient! and she’s hot! An Ancient with a ZPM, which she gives them: hands over to the Major, who walks to the Jumper with a childish grin on his face (the kind of expression Aiden has only seen him make rarely):  _Look what we found._

(McKay certainly isn’t silent after that.)

 


	7. the purge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Atlantis - their base, their_ home - _is being threatened._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2016-06-29) This chapter coincides with chapters 26-27 of "we are the raven and the ghost".  
> (2018-04-01) Chapter updated/revised.

**vii.  
**

# the purge

 _Atlantis – their base, their_ home _– is being threatened._

* * *

**Hyperspace: approaching New Lantea (exact location unknown) · Pegasus**   
**2005, Terran time · zero minutes before the Uprising**

* * *

The man guarding the west entrance – J.J. recognizes him but they’ve never talked – is momentarily stunned.

Olsen had approached. His team and the rest of them watching, including AR-4. DeSalle is waiting, near the consoles. Like a guard himself. There are others of Everett’s guys here and this is the signal, and they begin to move; the man by the door is trying to stop people from leaving. Dr David Parrish begins to argue; he’s good at that. Talking. Morrison says it can be annoying when they’re on peaceful missions of scientific interest, when the doc comes along.  _Always bring earplugs,_ he’d joke.

This is not a joke. The doc is carrying a stunner now, the only weapon the civilians usually are allowed to handle (if even that) without the 101s; and it’s not like Atlantis is full of shooting ranges.

“Hey, let me through here. Why aren’t you opening this door?”

They are all aware of the time, the exact minutes and seconds passing. Timing is crucial. J.J. glances at his digital wristwatch. 23 seconds. Soon soon soon soon;

“The Colonel has given new orders,” insists the guard. The tag on his uniform identifies him as Decker and he’s got a thin, rather crooked nose. Sort of morose expression which is now slightly twisted. Anxious. Feet spayed, back straight, but his hands seem to be itching. An impatient roll of eyes at the doc’s words. “No one is to leave this room until we land.”

“Look,” Parrish says, Olsen standing right behind him; “we’ve got - stuff - to do. You can’t order us around.”

14 seconds.

“Yes, I can. You can’t get past this door. The Colonel gave the order that nobody is to leave Stargate Operations.”

Nine. Eight. Seven.

Olsen moves forward. Like a dare. Decker doesn’t flinch. “The  _Colonel_  doesn’t give the orders around here.” His voice isn’t harsh but pleasant, as if he’s saying hello, talking about the weather. Marine-to-marine. “I don’t see any issue with leaving this room - not unless the Colonel is  _making_  it an issue.”

Softly, except the way he mentions Everett clearly presses some buttons, or it’s just the hint of the a lazy grin; Decker shifts. Has had enough. Is about to say something, but there is a silent exchange that he isn’t aware of, and Morrison readies his weapon. Decker sees it. Turns around to face him and draw his weapon too; Olsen echoes the movement but it’s the doc, of all people, who pulls the trigger. The bright blue beam of neurons hits Decker dead-center, and he crumbles with a dull, heavy thud.

_What better way to start a party?_

The reactions are immediate. A shot goes wide; Everett’s guys - and they’re just marines, normal guys following orders and J.J. mentally apologizes as he and his team help subduing them with stunners. But they did a wrong thing when taking power from Weir and locking the Major up. Without explanations or anything. Just - it’s not done, not around here. These guys are probably all right, but they haven’t been here before, they’ve never seen a Sucker in person or fought them. They don’t know about the Genii or anything. They may know how to fight Goa’uld or Kull warriors; and J.J. is grateful they came, gave the hope of survival when they were going to abandon the City. Blow it up. But they weren’t here during the first months of hell, when the Expedition discovered the Wraith, when Sumner was killed. (is that why? is Everett doing this because of Sumner?)

They weren’t here.

They don’t know what a mistake they’ve done.

* * *

An hour earlier, Sergeant Bates gathers them in a storage locker in the Citadel. Away from the Gate Room, away from prying ears. The Colonel – well, he’s amassed his people too. Scattered some of them; left guards by the Gate, a handful of them. Bates is already moving his pieces in advance because if this is anything like chess he’s damned good at it, and J.J. remembers the arguments, the first month, when Bates accused the Athosians of being spies. Tried to get Teyla out of AR-1. It was all sorted, thankfully, some kind of tracking device but still it lingers somewhere at the back of his mind - Bates can be suspicious, it’s in his DNA to be and right now it’s a good thing.

They’ve switched channels. It’s like a City-wide secret command. No one is told directly and yet everyone, civilian and marine alike, seems to understand - something isn’t right; something has to be done. Everyone knows about the Major being locked up in a cell and few have answers as to why (mere speculation) and the City itself seems colder, something off with the vents, circulating the air more harshly. And secondary systems in the Control Room are suddenly more easily accessible and they’ve set up a Communications Center, with Dr Z and Bates in charge. Handed out stunners and tasers, shifted to blanks, emptied all sharp ammo because they don’t mean to kill anyone.

There’s no word for what exactly is happening, not yet anyway. J.J. feels tense and it’s almost like something within him is singing, his very blood, with trepidation. Fear. Something is threatening Atlantis from within and they’ve got to fix it.

Markham’s team, AR-6, and the whole of AR-2 are in the Gate Room; even Dr Parrish who detests leaving his botany lab behind. J.J. shares a glance with Gladys, who inclines her head in return, silently. Like a mission.  _Didn’t think we’d ever fight other marines, though,_  Juno whispers. A sliver of fear. 

(The Major’s raven is hovering above the Stargate, up there in the rafters where the columns holding the ceiling up meet and from that dark juncture a pair of green eyes are constantly watching - J.J. wonders: is the Major watching through them right now, using his Dæmon Bond to do so, realizing what’s about to happen?)

Ford arrives a minute later with Emmagan. Asks for two volunteers; Sanchez and Simmons step up without questions. Bates delegates tasks to the others. AR-7 is already in the Core Room, because making sure the ZPMs remain safe and the power supply stable is priority or they’ll all be torn apart as the Cityship is thrown out of hyperspace.

Landing is due pretty soon – just a couple of hours. And to land they’re going to need a pilot.

“All right, everything’s in place,” Ford says. Once he was this young kid, kind of nervous, joking around, always pleasant but still J.J. had trouble seeing how this kid would manage being XO. There are others, probably more qualified. But Colonel Sumner chose this kid, and the Major stuck with it - Ford’s dad was a marine, J.J. recalls the trading of stories. It’s in his blood. Now it shows. He doesn’t sound nervous or afraid, just very calm. Maybe Emmagan, her presence like a steady rock, helps. “Let’s do this.” He taps his headset to contact Dr Weir. “Echo One, we’re ready.”

 _“Understood; in position,”_  is her answer, open to everyone on this channel - every Lantean.  _”Good luck.”_

Ford turns back to the gathered marines. Voice doesn’t need to be raised because they’re all listening intently and they’re armed and they’re  **ready**. “Marines! It’s time!” Not much of an uprising speech but it doesn’t matter; it’s not necessary to get their blood going. They all know, anyway: the Major might not be a marine, but he’s damn well close enough.  _Semper Fi_. And now Atlantis – their base, their  _home_  – is being threatened. “We’re taking the City back. You with me?”

Brief clamour: “Oorah! Oorah!”

Break-out time. 

* * *

The intruders have been stunned and trussed up. When Ford returns, his strike team is not alone; Gladys is the first to see them. Nearly tasers them, an instinctive reaction, and she relays the news over comm: “Echo One, this is Echo 22; Echo Three is back and they’ve got the Major, repeat: they’ve got the Major.”

 _“Understood,”_  is Weir’s reply. Relieved, tightly controlled. The anxious uneasiness of repercussions. Firefights have broken out. Scattered across the City. Reports coming in: Colonel Everett is refusing to listen; Weir is adamant that they need to negotiate and he must officially return power to her. When he won’t, continuing to sanction the Major’s release, they’d swiftly taken matters into their own hands. There are still so many question marks and uncertainties and no one even knows for sure what motivates the Colonel; if this is a grab of power or of fear or some delusions.

(He hasn’t seen the Wraith.

He has never seen the Wraith.)

J.J. doesn’t see the Major’s return. He’s leading a security team of his own through the corridors - DeSalle, Johnson and Hooper. Tyler is moving on another level of the same Tower, and Markham is stalking through a maintenance tunnel (this time there is no complaint about the ten thousand year old lingering dust). Taking the Colonel’s forces by surprise. Most of them are spread out in teams too and they don’t seem to have the advantage of the City on their side, lost in the maze of sizable corridors and rooms, and for some reason their lifesigns detectors don’t seem to be working. Another advantage: except now the Colonel has begun gathering his people once again, realizing this, and drawing them together in larger groups. Harder to tackle. Sealing doors. A murmur from the Control Room, Chuck the tech repeating updates. A well-oiled machine.

The scanner in Hooper’s hand glows faintly. Shows a mass of movement up ahead. This is the spot. The area below is open and wide, the doors not jammed shut yet and they won’t give them a chance to be.

J.J. presses the radio. “Echo 9 reporting. In position.”

Sergeant Bates is listening in from the Control Room. Waiting. By taking this room they could box the Colonel himself in and quell the battle rapidly. Hopefully. J.J. is in no mood to draw this out unnecessarily.

 _“Echo 16, copy,”_  Markham says.  _”Not quite there yet. Control, please confirm?”_

The Canadian tech, Chuck, responds:  _”Hatch is nine feet from your current position. Confirm ten lifesigns inside.”_

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Echo 9 to 43. We’re waiting for you.”

_“Echo 43 copies all. Just give the word.”_

Another fourteen seconds, before Markham’s voice reaches them again, slightly crisper, a whisper, barely a breath:  _”In position.”_

Markham acts first, firing off in’tar rounds from above: a maintenance hatch, a weak point in the ceiling which Everett’s guys thankfully haven’t considered. He’s a good marksman. They give him another two seconds, hearing the return fire: stunners. The confusion.

The door isn’t sealed and so no C4 or other explosive device is necessary to breach the room. Hooper opens the door with a thought thanks to her ATA-gene and lobs a flashbang inside in a wide arc. Tumbles to the ground right as it goes off. The Lanteans are ready for it, ears and eyes briefly covered. The Colonel - he is there, as well as nine other guys. Stumbling back, groaning in dazzled pain. The Colonel is holding a lifesigns detector. The screen is dark and blank, unresponsive. J.J. barely sees it, little time to reflect on it. Someone yells into a radio. The din of battle;

“ – breaching –”

_“Ambush! Watch out –”_

“Lima nine’s down ...!”

“Go, go, go!”

“– aim for the –”

One of them falls, Hooper’s precise shot, and she moves swiftly on to the next one. The Colonel and his wolf withdraw toward the other end of the room, a couple of white Ancient couches upturned for cover. Nearly there. Could be over soon and they’ll finally have the answers. But the Colonel’s stunner flashes blue, a bolt hitting Johnson square in the throat - fuck, that has got to hurt when he comes to - and J.J. crouches, gets a couple of shots off. Markham has taken two more of them out. But he begins to realize now, as Dæmons viciously engage each other, that the tide begins to turn and they will be overwhelmed. The Colonel is ruthless in his efficiency. Radio chatter in the background;

“Control, Echo 80 is down; stunned,” J.J. reports breathlessly. The City’s sensors are powerful but they have yet to figure out a way to distinguish between conscious and unconscious living forms. 

The Colonel still has six guys going strong, though one of them is limping a bit, hit in the leg. They’re moving toward a back door. No sign of Tyler yet; this wasn’t the plan -

“43, where the hell are you?! We haven’t got the time to fool around!”

 _“Sorry, got busy.”_  A faint sound of rushing wind and bursts of fire in-between words. Tyler’s good mood does not seem altogether affected, however.  _”Surprise party. Someone called for back-up. Got to say, it cramps my style. Hey, that was a mean move –”_

 _“Cut the chatter and focus,”_ Markham growls. This frequency is being monitored by the folks back in the Control Room, after all. And this isn’t a mission to some friendly planet where they can make small talk and chew on a powerbar while taking a stroll through some pretty garden. 

A second passes. Hooper swears loudly, in’tar clattering to the ground. Arm limp. The Colonel got her. They’re forcing them back, toward the entrance they breached. Got to contain this.

Decision made, J.J. makes the call. “Get out of there! 43, 16, withdraw to Control. Take the long way round if you have to.”

While Hooper provides cover fire, with her left arm – aim no longer as precise – J.J. grabs hold of Johnson’s vest to haul him out of there. His Dæmon is still somewhat lucid, as if suffering from a great headache but miraculously still awake, and it clings to its human with its claws. Clears the room. Seals the doors and they hurry toward the nearest transporter. Got to get Johnson a medic.

 _“Copy that.”_  A shuffle as Markham moves, as rapidly as he can while still crawling through the not too sizable maintenance tunnel.

 _“Understood.”_  The comm remains open, as if momentarily forgotten, while Tyler shouts to his team:  _”You heard him! Move your asses!”_

* * *

Regrouping. Control reports that Olsen’s team managed to hold off a group of intruders headed to the brig, most likely an attempt to stop Ford and his team to free the Major. Too late for that.

Johnson and his Dæmon are propped up in a bed; thankfully, despite the rather nasty hit from the stunner, neither of them is injured otherwise. A bit bruised, perhaps. Certainly Johnson will wake up complaining about his sore ego; often happens first time you’re stunned, and Johnson has been lucky thus far in the Expedition not to have had endured that. J.J. gets hold on Kemp and Gladys and DeSalle, waiting in the Control Room by the mesh of consoles. Other teams are on the move, including several Athosians who volunteered to help. Not enough weapons to arm the entire City, though, not if they want to keep sticking to non-lethal. Guards posted at key points. The problem is, the Chair is not secured yet, and the Colonel is working his forces that way. Take the Core, take the Chair ... and then return to take the Gate.

They’ve already tried to take the Core. AR-7 under attack. Word keeps flowing in and J.J. doesn’t hear of it until now; while he and the others were busy trying to box the Colonel in, failing to do so, a team of four breached the Core Room. Whispers of crossfire and a gunshot. Of someone – of Clark – being wheeled in on a gurney, rushed to the infirmary. First person to be severely injured and J.J.’s gut churns with concern; it doesn’t sound like this was a blank round or a stunner beam. This was ...

The Major is back, and the Raven sweeps above them like a watcher. Discussions in Weir’s office, along with Dr Z and Emmagan. Trying to come to a truce with the Colonel. J,J. stands close enough to the open glass doors to listen in, and it doesn’t sound like the conversation is going too well.

Weir’s voice is extremely controlled. A true diplomat. She was with the UN, she’s a top negotiator, doesn’t let her emotions show;

“– to avoid more of this unnecessary violence. Colonel, you must order your men to stand down.”

_“You forced my hand, Doctor, when your people attacked my marines. We are only defending ourselves!”_

“And you forced mine when you rescinded my command of this base, including its people, and arrested Major Sheppard for a crime he has clearly not committed. Colonel, we do not need to make enemies of one another. You may claim command of Atlantis by orders of General O’Neill, or Landry, or the whole of the SGC for all I know – but understand that this expedition will  _not_  remain loyal to such a command. I know these people, and I know they will not surrender while being fired upon. Do the right thing, Colonel, and lay down arms before anyone has to die.”

She’s good. By his side, Gladys glances at Chuck and Bates when the Comms station comes alive with new information; constantly flowing in, but this time it’s different. It’s not a report from Dr Beckett, still in operations get-up and bloodied gloves - the doc sounds weary and defeated;  _”We’ve done all we can. It was too late. I’m sorry.”_

“Shit,” Gladys whispers. “Clark ...”

Chuck is pale, and Bates’ face is drawn and stern and mouth set in a tight line. he doesn’t contact Weir. No, he reports directly to the Major, because the Major is their CO and Clark is one of theirs: 

_“Lieutenant Thompson from AR–7 is dead.”_

Like a switch being clicked, the Major goes from quiet and relatively placid, watching Weir’s attempts, to a shadow rising into action. And J.J. wasn’t allowed to see the video footage recovered from the Genii invasion, the aftermath, hadn’t wanted to see it but the expression on the Major’s face; it must have been the same then as it is now. He orders to speak with the Colonel, and Weir says: “Colonel, you are losing whatever edge you might have had over us. This is a fight you can’t win. You must put down your weapons.”

Then she hands him the radio. The Major takes it, without hesitation – a final chance for redemption: “You’re doing this for all the wrong reasons. I’m not even sure what the hell your reasons are, and frankly _I don’t care_. We’ve got marines fighting marines.  _Killing_  marines. Is that what you want, huh? ’Cause I sure as hell don’t. If you don’t stand down, you’re giving me no choice but to retaliate. And trust me, you don’t want that.” A heartbeat of silence. “We are going to leave hyperspace in half an hour. If we don’t have a pilot in the Chair by then, we’ll all crash onto the planet surface and even with the shields up and inertial dampening to maximum, at that speed, it won’t be pretty. In fact we might burn up in the atmosphere upon entry, and we’ll all die together. Is that what you want, Colonel? What do you want? Control of this City? Because that isn’t going to happen.”

Even Kemp, who at this point would say something inappropriately sassy, keeps his mouth shut. Exchanges a look with DeSalle. This won’t go well, they’re all thinking. Because there is no reality they can imagine where the Colonel, after this, will actually surrender and say:  _All right, you win, I give up._

Despite knowing that the answer will be a negative, J.J. still reels back, noise stuck in his throat in shock when the reply comes:

_“I will not negotiate with a **Strangeling**.”_

To actually say the word aloud ...

But the Major’s Dæmon - is it the catalyst, after all? Such a strange Shape, rising in the light, the heartbeats stilling in the Chair – was that the catalyst? Still so many missing answers;

Anyone listening in reacts similarly. The word shouldn’t be thrown around lightly and even J.J. doesn’t think he could force himself to say it even to the face of an enemy. A Wraith, yeah. But not another human being.  _Maybe that means we’re not a psychopath,_  Juno remarks, comfortingly. Dr Z releases a Czech curse and mutters about switching frequencies, the signal lost. They don’t hear the Colonel speak again. True to his word.

* * *

The Major rounds up his own team and AR-4, as well as Stackhouse, Oakley and Markham who are waiting around restlessly. Want to be useful. Divides them into two squads, handing the leash of one to Ford. Then he leads them onward and he doesn’t bring a lifesigns detector, not needing to rely on it to find his way in the giant City. Nor does he seem to need it to check for lifesigns. Maybe trusting only what is being relayed from Bates and Chuck; 

The Colonel is hiding out exactly where they’d foreseen it. A lower level, previously unoccupied, a hallway. Doors sealed shut. Fifteen of them hovering inside.

Other Lanteans are scourging the City and rounding up the rest, taking them to the detention area and, when that runs out of room, creating makeshift cells and also utilizing the isolation chamber which is meant to be used in medical emergencies. All that remains are these fifteen souls. Once they’ve subdued them, they can focus on landing. Less than half an hour. J.J.’s heart is pounding harshly against his ribcage. What if this won’t work? and they all burn up in the atmosphere?

The Major was right about that. Without a pilot, they’ll come crashing down –

They breach the room from two directions, Ford leading Oakley, Stackhouse and Markham, and the Major taking Emmagan and AR-4 through the other door. The usual chaos. The lingering dust from C4 and the remnants of bolted metal. Shouts of warning. They go all-in. And the Colonel seems to be losing his sense of self-preservation, getting desperate. J.J. lets Juno leap free, tackling down some guy’s Dæmon. Shaped like an otter. Subdues him with an in’tar round when the marine stumbles, startled and possibly in pain, at the attack. Emmagan does something similar though her own Dæmon is much larger than his own, looks deadlier. He still has no idea what the Shape is called, if it has a particular name.

The seconds trickle down and they’re surrounding the Colonel. The Major offers him to stand down and to walk out of there on his own power; to be free from the disgrace of being dragged out unconscious. The Colonel doesn’t move. 

His wolf does. J.J. hasn’t even noticed in the chaos how the Major’s Raven has flown in circles tauntingly and danced so so close to the wolf; now it pounces, and there’s a sharp cry, animalistic, yet unlike any animal noise he’s ever heard. Sharp teeth tear into the Raven’s wing and brings it down, and the Major down with it, from the shock. The Colonel’s face is cold and determined. J.J. raises his in’tar, but it’s Ford who takes the shot, and the Colonel and his wolf both crumble.

With difficulty, the Raven pries itself loose from the slack jaws - the Major is on the floor, Ford and Emmagan by his side in a flash and J.J. surveys the room. No one else but him and Stackhouse, who appears dazed but conscious. The conductors of a taser still attached to his side, cut in mid-air. Markham helps him to his feet, while Ford shouts for a medic, reporting that it’s over and that the Major’s down.

The Major’s down.

* * *

The Raven is bleeding.

J.J. knows, on a level, that Dæmons do not bleed like humans do. It’s … it’s complicated. Mentions in biology of how, as metaphysical manifestations, Dæmons are more than just flesh and bones and sinew. They’re more. Taboo has limited study of them; the idea itself, to seek answers through experimentation or the examination of corpses ... the thought causes his mouth to dry. No, it isn’t done. Now the Raven is bleeding and its wing is bent in an unnatural way.

 _There’s more than one way to get hurt,_  he remembers his mother saying once, suddenly. He and Juno had been in an accident when he was eight. Bicycle skittered and they’d both flown right off the seat hurled over the wheels and headed right into the asphalt; he’d been bruised, sore, cried like a baby. Juno had wailed and though he couldn’t find a physical wound on himself, he still recalls the sharp stabbing pain. Turns out it was a broken bone. Juno’s broken bone. Healed swiftly, much swifter than a human would, but still hurt like hell, especially for an eight year old boy who was confused and angry about being grounded, hurt because his Dæmon hurt and he couldn’t stop it.

Now the Raven is bleeding and the break isn’t clean but open and raw, the marks of canines ripping through flesh. Seeking revenge, seeking …

 _Strangeling_. Did the Colonel do that – do all this – because he thinks the Major is a Strangeling?

(Thompson is dead because of it.)

Doesn’t matter now. The whys. The medics arrive after half an eternity. McKay is there too, for some reason (and yet in hindsight this is no surprise at all: they’re team) and his voice is boisterously loud demanding he is at the Major’s side doesn’t shut up, worriedly grasping a shoulder. Asking a name. Close like team should be; he and Ford and Emmagan, they form a shield. The Major starts coming to. Beckett hovering. Meanwhile, Dr Mallory leads Stackhouse away, and someone bumps into J.J.’s side causing him to jump.

It’s DeSalle. “Need to be patched up?”

“I’m fine.” J.J. replies, unable to tear his eyes away from AR-1 and the doc who allows the Major to sit up with many protests.

“The Chair,” they can hear him saying. Six minutes left, if that, until they’re about to crash onto M35-117. Somehow, the Major stumbles onto his feet again, cradling the Raven to his chest, slightly awkward because of its size and its sprawling wing but they’re both conscious and the Major manages to walk. Heads toward a transporter; AR-1 follows, like a team should.

“We’d better find someplace to strap down, gents,” says Gladys after the doors close and the flash of light takes them away; voice her usual heavy tilt. “Is this is probably going to get real bumpy.”


	8. touchdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _they want to send them out there;_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-01) Chapter updated/revised.

**viii.  
**

# touchdown

_they want to send them out there;_

* * *

**Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado, U.S. · Earth · the Milky Way**   
**2004 (Terran time) · 490 days before the Uprising**

* * *

When Aiden Ford first steps foot at Quantico to begin his training as a commissioned officer of the USMC, he’s pretty terrified. Exalted, exited, sure; spent the night awake, on the phone with his cousin Sheri until she grew tired of his ramblings. Finalized the hours by dreaming with Adria about what the future was going to be like.

He’s going to make his old folks proud. Dad and mom, peering down from above. The grandparents; they’d baked cake before he left. He’s going to make them proud.

The fitness part, it’ll be tough. But he can do it. He’s in good shape, has always been. Likes running. Not the strongest guy around but that can change. But it takes more than a strong body with quick reflexes to become a good officer. That’s where he worries. He worked his grades in the end to try and reflect what he’s really like: bright, fast-thinking on his feet. But to be able to handle the pressure for real ... he has no idea if he really can do that.

 _We can,_ Adria assures him across their Bond, over and over: a conviction.  _We can do this._

And they do.

Aiden doesn’t give up. Aims to become the best of the regiment. Competition is high, adrenaline and sweat and testosterone. Not a place to be if you’re faint-hearted. Not tough enough. But he is - will be - is going to be. Aims for twenty pull-ups. Aims higher, higher; and he gains praise even as the Drill Instructions yell and shout in that way to lure you into defeat and stretch the limits and make sure that once you pull out, it’s not going to be on the battle field. Not going to be when blood’s on the ground and firearms raised. He spends hours improving his aim. Spends hours poring over the books, discussing tactics and formations in class and learning every detail; the regs and protocol, better than the back of his hand. Is good at hand-to-hand, finds a delight in it, in the rush;

The months are long and tiring. Keeps going. Vigor. Importance. All drilled into his head and his spine and he and Adria relishes this life, despite the downsides, the lack of privacy; makes Second Lieutenant and sent onward to TBS. Keeps going.

And when he steps out of there, six months later, he’s not terrified at all. Proud and relieved; an exhale; he’s proved he can master the tests. Now comes the real challenge; to prove he can be a soldier and a leader in the field, not simply running simulations.

He’s not shipped off on a tour to another continent. Stays, instead, Stateside for longer than he thought he would, lingering at bases which swiftly become familiar. Gains a band of friends to call his own. Lives.

When he’s twenty-three, he gets a call. Gets to meet a zoomie, of all things, some Major Hurst and there was a recommendation involved. An Air Force base at Colorado Springs; there are plenty of those in the area. But what do they want with a marine officer? Non-disclosure agreements, very hush hush. And this is his chance, his chance to do something and change the world;

he takes the offer and signs the documents with his name.

When they take him to the underground bunker along with a bunch of other lucky souls, he thinks:  _This must be a big joke,_  and he looks at the unfamiliar metal ring, the symbols engraved there. None of it making sense. This is an Air Force base without an air field or landing strip. This is an Air Force base a hundred meters underground, no windows, darkness encompassing, grey concrete walls. One of the safest, most heavily guarded bunkers on the planet. The top hat running the place, General Hammond, is surprisingly gentle when welcoming them to the Stargate Program.

One of the recruits blinks. Is allowed to ask the question: “Stargate?”

Another zoomie, Colonel Carter, explains the definition. Sounds like the thing out of a B-grade sci-fi movie and Aiden is frozen in his seat, in front of the conference table and the video screens, blood pounding loudly in his ears in shock; aliens, aliens are  _real_. Space is full of life and wonders and new planets to explore, and they want to send them out there;

they want to send them _out there_ ; 

* * *

**New Lantea (M35-117) · Pegasus**   
**2005 (Terran time) · six minutes after the Uprising**

* * *

Everything’s shaking, barely on the edge of control.

The radio is full of noise. Voices from the Gate Room: Chuck reporting no damage yet, but everything is shaking, and the City is falling, falling toward the atmosphere. Starting to burn. The shield’s up, it’s holding, it’s holding. Aiden has thrown himself on the floor, away from any walls, anyway. Teyla does the same, and McKay scrambles to mimic the movement. Doesn’t want to move; it’s evident that McKay for once worries more about someone else rather than himself. His Dæmon’s fur stands on end. Curled up by the base of the Chair. It’s glowing and turning slowly. The Major is lying there, the Raven on his chest, wing bloodied. Breathes heavily, an effort.

It shouldn’t be an effort. Aiden has seen the Major fly ships with his mind never breaking a sweat, diving from the beams of Wraith Darts, avoiding fire. Time and time again. Controlled various other tech, easily. But last time he sat in that Chair, he died - the flat line, heart stopping; Aiden can still remember the sound and the scents of panic and voices, unfamiliar onlookers. He’d died and then the Raven had risen. A spectacular thing. It’d taken a while to understand that, yes, that’s a Dæmon.

 _Late bloomer_ , the Major had later joked, in the infirmary. Stuck in a bed at Beckett’s insistence. 

Aiden hadn’t dared to laugh about it. He may have had his doubts and fears; he may have joined in with the jokes at the Mountain, the disdain, the mutters of the Major’s Dæmon being this shy little bug hidden in a pocket. The wry humor. Seen the Major’s shadowed face and thought he’s a bit odd, he’s a bit odd, but surely not a Strangeling; no, surely not. But a Dæmon isn’t a thing to joke about. It’s not like they ever spoke such words aloud. Wouldn’t think of it.

Strangelings don’t exist. It’s like the myth of Icarus falling into the sea and drowning in its cold waves as the sun melted his wax wings. It’s not real, but a story passed on as a lesson, teaching ... something. Aiden isn’t sure what the story of Strangelings is meant to convey other than, poisonously, that anything different is wrong and dangerous. That differences are to be feared. So, surely, he’d thought:  _the Major can’t be a Strangeling._

Strangelings don’t exist.

The City is still trembling. Evens out, slowly. Past the upper layers of the atmosphere. Someone’s crying from Control that they’re coming in too steep – McKay tries to relay the word. The Major may not be listening, hard to tell. Aiden is too busy holding on for dear life, clinging Adria to his chest, to look at his face properly.

Leaving a trail of fire behind. There are no windows in here; they cannot glimpse the new sky, the ocean which is going to become their new homeworld. Can’t smell it. 

A final giant rocking motion. The splash. They cannot see the shockwave rising and falling. Then: quiet. Everything stills. Aiden exhales and draws himself up. McKay is already on his feet, rapidly, slightly unsteadily. Drunk on elation and relief of being alive and the doc moves to the Chair, where the Major is like melded into it trying to become part of the City itself;

(the Bond he’d talked about; Aiden doesn’t really understand, still. How it works and is possible. But he doesn’t disbelieve for a second.

A Bond isn’t the kind of thing you joke about.)

“It worked! I can’t believe that worked!”

He wipes a sleeve over his eyes to get rid of the sweat and turns, and whatever he planned on saying leaves his brain without passing his throat; because McKay is standing over the Chair now leaning down and is kissing the Major, whose eyes aren’t yet open and the two are frozen there, for a heartbeat, two, three. Aiden stares at this open unhindered action.

They’ve wondered about it, sometimes. This closeness between Sheppard and McKay, those glances; thought, it can’t be. With all the regulations, DADT and all,  _surely not_  ... but the Major has gotten pretty good at overcoming impossible obstacles. Adria has kept insisting that it’s true, and now she smirks over their Bond;  _I knew it!_ Gloating. 

_Huh._

And then Rodney’s backing off all nervous and flustered and Aiden has never ever seen the doc like this. Actually makes him seem pretty human, for a change; not always full of confident unchallenged ego. Uncertain for once in his life. The trance breaks, and the Major moves; not to yell, or brush it over, but to pull him down again. Aiden realizes he’s still staring and closes his mouth, quickly, doesn’t want to resemble a fish. “Ad, you were right!”

 _Of course I was right,_  she responds.

So Sheppard and McKay are an item. Imagine that. 

Or going to be, at least, probably. Because the way they act, Aiden suddenly realizes, this spontaneous action might’ve actually been the  _first_ ; the rush of adrenaline pushing down boundaries. Wouldn’t dare otherwise. And he feels a bit like a voyeur, and averts his eyes. Starts walking out of there, gesturing Teyla to follow. The Major doesn’t look too good, probably needs a medic. But ... shit, Teyla.

She saw all that and she knows next to nothing about DADT. Has asked the occasional question, sometimes, about Earth culture, about marines, about how it works. Athosians are pretty open about things. But the concern about the Wraith has often pushed other issues aside. Maybe she hasn’t taken too much notice that marines don’t mix and mingle like the civilians dare to do.

Sure, it’s not always easy. There are a couple of bigots, who like to throw their weight around, whose comments do echo longer than they should’ve; but not everyone reacts to it, because they’re marines, they’re meant to be tough and, well, not always conforming to things deviating from the norm. Aiden knows a couple of the civvies are openly gay, with boy- or girlfriends left on Earth. Some have no partner at all. Rumors of new couples – they spring up all the time, because a community like this thrives on rumor (and the other way around). Aiden has heard plenty of them. Some even thought that Teyla and Sheppard were a thing in the early days; some still do.

 _Bullshit_ , Adria has always insisted. Seeing things on a level which Aiden might have tried not to see, out of loyalty or perhaps fear of regulations;

In hindsight, this isn’t surprising at all.

They back off, trying to give them some space. Privacy. Rather rare in a City like this, where security dictates to always know where everyone is, what they’re up to. Teyla turns to him questioningly when seeing Aiden’s worried expression; and he tries to explain, without it getting too awkward.

A day of surprises and sharp turnabouts;

“We don’t want him getting into trouble.”

“A relationship with Rodney would cause that?”

“It could, if the brass find out. So we can’t let them find out.”

“I see,” Teyla says, carefully. It’s clear she disagrees with the rules. Probably things that Earth is such an alien place, and that right now the Tau’ri are being both strange and ridiculous; a refusal of human rights. Unheard of. “Then I shall guard this secret closely.”

Another exhale. Aiden nods. Glances sideways;

McKay interrupts. “Radio! has anyone’s got a radio? Get hold of Carson; I think he’s passed out again –” The doc shakes the Major’s shoulder, while Aiden relays the word. Sheppard blinks back into consciousness. “Hey, hey. Sheppard. Can you stand?”

A groan. “… Yeah … I can walk.”

Rodney rolls his eyes; but moves to cradle an arm underneath the Major’s armpit, supportingly, as Sheppard oh so familiarly stubbornly pulls himself up, taking a wobbly step; ”Yes, sure, and probably smack your face right into the floor and give yourself a concussion. Let’s just – Ford, help us out, will you? Jeez, you’re heavier than you look.”

The Major doesn’t complain or snark back. There’s a smile there which is meant to be private, unlike any Aiden has seen him make - “Thanks, Rodney,” he says, voice slithering on a whisper - it’s a smile not meant for Aiden to see, not really; and he moves in to help from the other side, and they get Sheppard of the Chair’s raised dais, toward the doors, the corridor beyond. A transporter ride to the infirmary, where Beckett is waiting for them.

They’ve landed.

New Lantea is spread out beneath them like a canvas of blue;

 _new home sweet home._  

* * *

The memorial service is held twenty hours later, after the Colonel’s people have been properly detained. Some of them questioned already. The Colonel himself sits silent in refusal, arms crossed behind the cell bars and the force field, wolf prowling. Holds fast in his belief. Aiden feels tired, drained. Not just physically. Slowly, the Colonel will begin to relent. Answer questions. Eventually.

The Daedalus has landed; Colonel Caldwell seems rather reasonable. Spends time with Weir and the Major, now back on his feet clearheadedly. Aiden joins them on several occasions. Briefings. Bates is there, too, and other key Expedition members. Dr Beckett. Some of the teams who were out there, reporting back what they’d done and seen and heard. Stackhouse spoke for AR-7, recalled the events that led to Clark getting a bullet tearing through a major artery. Minutes seconds slipping away, deliriously. The docs don’t mention anything about Ghosting; the slightest of reliefs; Aiden prays that it was quick.

The Chapel is packed. A flashback: the silence after the Genii had come and gone and the storm cleared away. The horizon still wet with rain. Now there’s one body bag, not two. And this one will be shipped through the Stargate to Earth, not turned to ashes spread over Lantea. Left behind.

The Doc speaks, briefly. The standard words. Aiden has heard them before.

None of the Colonel’s people are there. None of them have asked to be.

Aiden sits with a bowed head and remembers, remembers Clark’s face without any blood on it. The pranks pulled until it became an all-out war between teams. Nothing serious. No one ever got hurt. Clark was a nice guy. Hell of a marine. Loyal to the last.

Major Sheppard stands up and promises that they’ll find the answers to why all this happened. Aiden knows that it’s a promise that will be kept; even if takes weeks, months, years, to wheedle out all the reasons. They light candles traded for with the Te’reem, on the edge of Pegasus, and the glow is momentarily soothing; someone sniffles, gasps, tries not to cry. And Aiden realizes, a sudden sharpness; Clark’s been dating this girl from the Anthropology department. Nearly forgot about her in the chaos. She’s sitting on the front row, Teyla next to her, and Faulkner and Gladys, forming a shield. 

Afterward, he hovers on the threshold. Almost walks up to say - what? It’s not the first marine who’s died in service, in Atlantis or anywhere else. He barely knows her even if Clark spoke often about her, voice warm and there’d been something, something there difficult to place. Something which Aiden has never really felt himself. So many others are there, giving offers of condolences. They watch, for a while, he and Adria. Even McKay is doesn’t snark and complain, a gesture so sharp in its solidarity. Twelve months ago, a very different Rodney would’ve stood there. He’s with the Major, of course, and Weir and Colonel Caldwell. The Colonel hangs back. His crew are present, too. Unaware of all the details but it doesn’t matter.

Briefly, he sees the Major walk up to the woman – what was her name? Aiden racks his brain. Angelina, or something. Yeah. Clark always spoke about her like she’s his angel and there was even a whisper of making it more permanent than dating. The Major hands something to her, glimmers of metal. Dog tags.

Aiden’s throat is dry and for a second time he looks away. They walk out of there, he and Adria.

Things left to do.

Messes to clean up.

Doubtful the SGC and the IOA will even care about the girlfriend other than to worry about her capacity to function as a scientist, if she’s going to need respite.

They’ll care more about the numbers than the names. The reality of things: it’s just how they are.

Maybe that’s why the City’s so special. The Doc never treats any of them like numbers. She knows all the names.

* * *

A day passes, two. Debates. Johnson and a couple of others who’d suffered lighter injuries – bruises and scrapes – are released from the infirmary.

The call comes: time to return to Earth. The IOA insists and it comes back then, crushing down, the discussion which Aiden had been part of in the Conference Room with Weir and McKay and the Major. Sheppard explaining about his Bond with the City, and Rodney saying the Major can’t leave, something about the distance between galaxies being too great. Now the words are repeated and the guy on the other side, General Landry, isn’t entirely convinced but General O’Neill is. Wry and with that certain sense of humor he always seems to have. Aiden’s never really met the General in person. He’s like a legend, something far away and a bit superhuman for his efforts.

(now he’s starting to think of the Major being   
somewhat of the same)

Aiden doesn’t hesitate to volunteer to go. If the Major can’t defend himself against the IOA and the questions of the brass, then Aiden will do it. It’s not a burden or even duty; it’s simply the right thing to do.

As they prepare for the departure, packing the last things, Aiden casts a look around at the room which has been home for the past year. A pang of regret. What if he doesn’t get back? What if this is the last time he sees this room, this Tower, this City? What if the SGC decides to reassign them?

 _We will get back,_  Adria says, certain, at once.  _Of course we will._

“Hey, Ford.” Suddenly, Tyler appears, doors sliding open, and leans against the Ancient frame. Dæmon resting by his feet, watching him with wide curious eyes. “Heard you’re going to face the dragons.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Think fast.”

Aiden does, whipping his hands up, dropping the duffel bag. Something soars through the air and he catches it with grace surprising himself. Turns it over and looks at the unwrapped gift; it’s a bottle of Balkan brew, the good stuff. Tyler shrugs a bit awkwardly.

“A good-luck package from us redshirts. By which I mean my own team, mostly, because we provided the bottle. Cost us half a fortune, you know.”

“Nice. Thanks, man.”

“Don’t go get reassigned, because that would suck,” Tyler reminds him sternly. Like a firm pat on the back.

Aiden chuckles, the sound dying in his throat, all raw. It’s suddenly a bit difficult to breathe. “Thanks. I won’t.” A heartbeat, slightly awkward. Tyler shuffles his feet, and Aiden clears his throat. “So, came to see me off? Didn’t know you cared.”

“You’re not bad for a kid.”

“Kid? Still that, after all this?” Honestly, he’d thought they’d drop that by now.

“Yeah. Don’t question the grown-ups. Hey, when you get back, mind bringing some Earth treats? Favor will be returned, of course.”

He grins. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Tyler inclines his head in gratefulness. “I’ll make sure to make the new zoomie’s life hell.”

The Daedalus is going to leave someone behind, another Major. A watcher and a safeguard, in case of another rebellion. It’s wrong; the only zoomie onboard until now has been the Major and this, this intrusion, doesn’t sit well with anybody. But the Major will stay here and look after things, and Tyler and the marines and the rest of the Expedition will help him.

_It’ll be fine._

Confident that the City’s going to be in safe hands, that his base, his home is going to be there once they return, a weight lifts from his shoulders and Aiden and Adria walk to the Gate, feeling more like their usual selves. Chattering happily. Meeting up with Bates half-way, also he laden with bags and gear.

* * *

They reach the Gate Room to find the Stargate open and active, the Colonel’s people streaming through to reach Earth. What’ll happen to them there, Aiden isn’t certain. Doesn’t want to think about it for at least another day. He waves his goodbyes. Teyla and Weir return the gestures; and the Major’s expression is clear that he’s confident in him too.

Another mission. They’re going to fulfill it.

On reflex, taking him, Aiden walks up the stairs and salutes his CO –  it’s the right thing to do. Sheppard raises his right hand to do the same. The exchange is swift and simple in its entirety;

“We’ll be back, sir. On the double.”

“See that you will, Lieutenant.”

Then they turn, walk down the stairs. Nod a final goodbye to the gathered bystanders; pause for a millisecond. Aiden takes a breath - yes, they’ll return. Make sure of it. With a final glance over his shoulder, the young marine straightens his back and steps through the puddle.

The City disappears.


	9. memento mori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _it’s been a long day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2018-04-03) Chapter updated/revised.

**ix.  
**

# memento mori

_it’s been a long day._

* * *

**New Lantea (M35-117) · Pegasus**  
**2005 (Terran time) · two days after the Uprising**

* * *

New Lantea has five moons. Fancy that. Only two of them are close and bright enough to be visible with the naked eye; a pretty sight, the quiet slow circle. Like a pair of round eyes peering down at the City from a distance.

They’re putting out the fires. Cleaning up the hallways; gathering the empty shells. Private Lindsay and the Sergeant in charge of the Armory are busy counting the stunners and in’tars and tasers relinquished, checking the inventory. Cleaning staff, both marine and civilian volunteers, are scrubbing floors and walls to get rid of the scorch marks; not the easiest task. Slowly but surely the City begins to revert back to its original likeness, crisp and clear. Movement everywhere. The Doc is constantly in meetings with various folks; Sergeant Bates, the Major, AR-1 as a whole. Once the Daedalus lands, Colonel Caldwell makes his appearance and J.J. hadn’t really gotten a good look at him before, before all this. 

The guy is kind of tall, bald, a sour expression, well-guarded. His Dæmon is the sort of comfortable creature that is good to have watching your back, steadily. They spend an hour locked in with the Doc at her office, the soundproof glass walls betraying nothing of what is being said.

Tasks are handed out; they’ve got fifty-eight marines in the brig. Well, not just the detention area but put in groups of five or six in various isolation chambers hurriedly designated as such in the hours after the Uprising. Not treating them badly, not at all. They’re housed and well-fed and allowed to play cards with one another. No restrictions on speech. The only guy truly isolated is Colonel Dillion Everett, the only one with the full true answers, it seems like. Rumors are, after Bates and the Major have done some questioning, that no one was in on this. Whispers of Goa’uld - of a Snake running the show.

Of the  _Major_  being a Snake. J.J. nearly laughed hysterically when he heard that one. Because,  _honestly?_ That’s the last person in Pegasus he’d ever suspect of being a Snake.

And then he considers it, and doesn’t laugh. It’s not a thing to joke about.

No one knows who, if anyone, will face court martial. Everyone in the City is becoming acutely aware that their own actions can be considered out of hand, rash, deliberately harming; they could be the ones at fault; and the SGC could decide to intervene and cancel the whole Expedition. Drag them back Earth-side, wink goodbye to the glimmering stars of Pegasus.

(blow up the City to make sure the Wraith won’t follow)

The thought doesn’t sit well at all. J.J. and his team have been busy, running around doing various menial tasks that are still so extremely important. Just a handful of muttered complaints; no more. Gathering in the hours of the falling night to rest, finally dropping their gear and breathing a sigh of relief, muscles aching. They’re sitting in the mess hall when it’s announced that the SGC are debating it all and request all senior personnel to return to Earth.

They’re given nothing but a couple of hours. AR-4 finish their meal in silence, hurriedly. Wondering but not speaking aloud: who else will be recalled? will they be returning?

Still so much to do. It’s not over yet.

* * *

After he and his team have finished their cleaning shifts, J.J. walks to the Citadel, arms heavy. Goes right to his quarters – have never been a shortage of those, and all officers have their private ones. The enlisted share rooms, two or three at the time, with the luxury of private bathrooms regardless of rank. J.J. finds the lights turned off and his bunkmate, Corporal Hester, buried under the covers. Soft, uneasy snoring. In silence, J.J. strips and hits the shower. Hot water. Closes his eyes. Doesn’t scrub vigorously but just stands there, letting it fall off him. Hoping it will make the day itself fall off him and slip into the drain.

Switching to a freshly laundered pair of cammies, he goes to the recreational areas. Many different rooms. Normally, these hallways would be full with activity and noise until lights out at 1100. It’s not even 1500 yet, but it’s silent; most people are either busy or have been dismissed and allowed to sleep, like Hester. 

They’re all tired.

The gym is unoccupied except for Jessie, a dedicated Lance Corporal and they often spar together; he’s now standing before a sand bag hitting it repeatedly, old well-trained moves ingrained in his spine. Doesn’t pause when J.J. pokes his head inside.

He wanders around for a while. Uneasy and there’s something undefined in his gut, this feeling of ... of nothing to do, of a lack of duty, of a lack of  _answers._  The Major and the Doc are trying to get those now. J.J. will read the reports when they come, or get involved when asked for. Right now, part of his mind feels entirely blank. They walk the stairs to the second level of the Citadel, he and Juno, without speaking.

The library there – could even be called The Library – holds a collection of real bound books as well as digital copies brought along, and an area for listening to music or watch movies with headphones on using PDAs for this very purpose. A place to wind down, and a place to study, which many of the marines do. There’s no shortage of teachers to look to in the City; experts in practically anything from agriculture to physics to history are available. Most of the scientist happy to help out and spread their knowledge.

It’s not as empty here. He finds Gladys, as he’d hoped; boots off, curled up on one of the white sofas, a book open in her lap. Her gaze is fixed on the pages as if staring at them could cause the world to change. Her Dæmon rests on her right side, and she’s got a hand buried in the fur of the black jaguar, stroking slowly. J.J. means to softly knock on one of the bookshelves, but the Brit doesn’t look up as she speaks:

“Hey, J.J.” Monotone.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Recognized the attitude,” she answers, cryptically. Turns a page. “Want something, or what?”

“Just wanted to check up on you.” His duty as a team leader and a friend.

“Don’t worry about me, J.J.” Finally she looks up. Her eyes are a bit red, bloodshot; from tears or anger or weariness, J.J. doesn’t ask. “Should be worrying about Emmanuel.” They’d only use DeSalle’s first name if it’s serious. If the concern is genuinely beyond wondering whether the scrapes acquired during the last missions were hiding deeper wounds.

There’ll be a memorial service soon.

“Know where he is?”

“I’m not his minder.” The brisk answer could be taken as harsh dismissal, but they both know it’s not. “Check his quarters.” J.J. inclines his head in thanks; goes. Let Gladys have a moment, however long she needs, to steel her nerves again. 

It’s been a long day.

* * *

DeSalle is in his quarters. As a Lieutenant he has his own, on the first level of the Citadel. Doesn’t need to bother with the inclinations and antics of a roommate. He’s plucking away at his guitar; each member of the Expedition was allowed to bring a certain amount of personal effects, aware they may not be returning, and thus were going to need these small means of escape. J.J. knows plenty of people, especially among the civvies, brought musical instruments. A violin here, an oboe there. Some of the scientists have been managed to put together a digitized piano, much better and more advanced than any synth to be found on Earth. (McKay’s idea, apparently. J.J.’s not so sure about whether that is actually true). They don’t have a proper band, not out here, not yet and maybe not ever. Would be pretty cool, though.

There has been the occasional gathering where happy volunteers have played, performances to brighten everyone’s day, a ray of the simply joyous life in the dark mess they’re in. Gathering to celebrate birthdays and holidays. Plans to make a memento of the Expedition’s first year anniversary, hadn’t the Wraith come and fucked it all up. The Athosians happily join in each time, sharing some of their own heritage. There’s a dance which reminds J.J. of some kind of celebratory victory dance, or war ritual, which Emmagan and Halling have taught, or tried to teach; Dr Kusanagi turned out to be surprisingly adept at it.

The marine medic rolls his eyes when J.J. opens the door, hand hovering over the panel in the wall. Continues playing. 

“You don’t need to be here,” he says, after a moment. 

“Hush, you big brute. Let me worry, ‘kay? Can’t really help it.”

A sigh, but DeSalle lets him in. The doors slide shut. He’s still playing, stumbling for a moment to get his fingers in place, strumming the strings. Humming on his breath. J.J. surveys the room. One of the windows is ajar, letting in a breeze. Smells like salt and water and yet not at all like the air on Lantea. New planet, new atmosphere. It’s going to take some getting used to. Even Atlantis’ neatly recycled air will eventually adapt a new certain kind of taste.

“I’m not going to talk,” says DeSalle after a moment.

“Didn’t expect you to. Gladys sent me.”

“… You can tell her I’m fine.”

“I will. She won’t believe me.”

They’d sometimes engage in a game of chess. Right now, though, right now the contrast is too stark; too closely resembling the City-wide game which has so recently swept through Atlantis. Instead, J.J. collapses on the bed next to him. Listens to the vibrations in the air;

Clark and DeSalle were pretty close, despite the obvious differences in personality. Where DeSalle is quiet and rough and hardened, Clark is - was.  _was_  - like a candle, always bright. Liked to laugh and goof around. Kept his heart close to his sleeve. Was always the first to ask the worrisome questions, anxious about the state of the world, but also quick to support his team, his friends. AR-7 isn’t going to be the same, now. And DeSalle always keeps up this tough exterior,  _I don’t really care,_  but it’s a façade, it’s a lie. He takes things very deeply. Like stab wounds that cannot be deflected. Body armor thick but not made of resistant Kevlar. 

Not the first friend lost in combat. Won’t be the last, either, the unforgiving reality. But this is Atlantis. Home soil. This is Atlantis, and this invasion wasn’t Wraith or Genii.

Marines aren’t meant to be firing at each other.

The four of them sit there, two humans and their Dæmons. DeSalle continues playing. The at first seemingly random notes join to make a melody, obediently familiar. A voice, then two. Steadfastly: 

 _“From the Halls of Montezuma_  
_to the Shores of Tripoli;_  
_we fight our country’s battles_  
_in the air, on land and sea_

“And space!” an interjection coined years ago by SGC-bound marines - it comes automatically, unasked for - J.J. shouts it; nearly causes laughter and DeSalle’s hand skitters over the fingerboard, stumbling;

“Don’t break the rhythm, Corps.” Barely audible, a disdained mutter. J.J. hides a smile.

 _first to fight for right and freedom_    
_and to keep our honor clean;_    
_we are proud to claim the title_  
_of United States Marine -”_

Clark would recite those lines and turn them about,  _From the Halls of Cheyenne Mountain to the Shores of Abydos,_  thinking he’s hilarious, before heading out with his team through the Gate. DeSalle’s voice dies, and J.J. lets the words fade away. They don’t speak. The notes keep going, tune changing eventually. Fingers moving deftly. J.J. exhales, closes his eyes.

It’s been a long day.

It’s been a fucking long day.

* * *

The Daedalus will take the slow route back, along with the Colonel and his people. They go willingly, in groups, and the Colonel is the only one requiring cuffs. Led out on the drawbridge instead of beamed up to save some power.

Clark Thompson is taken through the Stargate too, to be buried in Earth soil. Would’ve wanted that. Has got family waiting and they, at least, will receive some closure. He and his Dæmon’s bodies - the docs have cleaned him up. Put him in a nice new uniform without dirt on the boots and no blood-splatter to taint it. Medals polished to gleam like silverlight; they are carried in a wooden casket, a procession of silence. Stackhouse says a couple of words, as AR-7:s team leader and Clark’s friend, in the minutes beforehand. The Major isn’t that good a speaker and no one has asked him this time; it’s not necessary. 

The girlfriend, Angelina, is standing there silent with tearful eyes but they don’t fall. She’s tired and worn out. Faulkner stands by her shoulder, comfortingly. She’s going to stay, she’s decided. Continue her work in the City. It’ll help her heal and move on, and there will be no shortage of friends or support here. No one will ask unwanted questions.

J.J. and Juno watch the procession: the casket carried by Sergeant Bates and three volunteers of those who were the enemy but never truly the enemy. J.J. recognizes a couple of them: DeSalle’s old friend, Greene, and the morose one who’d guarded the Gate Room, Decker. They are willfully obedient now and honor their fellow marine in silence. Carrying the casket and the flag with grace. Have heard the story now, too, of it being a freak accident, live rounds heating the air and the shot was never meant to be fired. The occasional dark glare is thrown in the Colonel’s direction but no words, never any words.

Never any words.

Weir goes, along with Dr Beckett and Ford and Bates. But the Major lingers. Something about staying as second-in-command, in the Doc’s place. J.J. doesn’t know the details and is, honestly, a bit surprised. Expected someone else to take his role as CO, such as Ford. Major Sheppard was at the heart of this whole thing, after all, and he’d thought the IOA would jump at the chance to grill the Zoomie. Not just in the light of the Uprising but the whole Expedition - their first few hours - Colonel Sumner’s death. 

Maybe the answer will come in time. The Major lingers by the bannisters as his team one by one is taken by the event horizon, with the exception of Emmagan. The Athosian isn’t Senior Staff, she’s still an alien. Competent at both negotiating and leading and soldiering, but still an alien. The last one to go is Dr McKay. Lingers by the console, checking something, yells briefly at various people about their incompetence and about leaving the City in one piece until he gets back - the usual stuff; no one even blinks. This is what’s normal.

“They’d better bring back real coffee,” murmurs DeSalle on his breath as the Doc is taken by the wormhole. Among the final shadows to flicker out.

“I’d be happier if they brought proper tea.”

Kemp snorts. “Gladys, sometimes you are just so ... so  _British._ It’s hilarious.”

“Know what’s hilarious? A Guy like you with a few fewer teeth.”

“Oh, ha ha ha.”

The grouchy doc turns to Emmagan. J.J. hears at the distance the Athosian say something, her voice alluring, and McKay looks shifty and uncomfortable, all of a sudden;  _Say hello to Halling for me, will you?_ he says, and Emmagan smiles and promises she will even if the doc might just have blurted the words without thinking.

The Athosians’ leader and spiritual guide isn’t here right now. Halling and his people are helping with the on-going clean-up. Some say they’re going to look for a planet of their own now, settle down, now that they have lost the Lantean Mainland. Set up camp and live their lives like they’re used to. They’re nice folks. J.J. has befriended a few of them, including this very friendly and handsome woman (and Kemp found that out eight weeks ago and won’t leave it alone, naturally).

And the grouchy doc turns to the Major, who raises a hand not to salute - the doc isn’t a marine, but he’s still team - but to offer in a shake. Both of them are usually so reserved about bodily contact, the doc with his aversion to people except to yell at them in complaint, and the Major with this aloofness that’s never really gone away, even though it’s clear he’d do anything to ensure the City’s safety, including everyone within it. Now, though, the doc pulls him into a half-awkward embrace, a pat on the back, kind of tense but Kemp makes an  _awww_  kind of noise under his breath; “So the doc has feelings, huh.” He’s shushed by Gladys who steps on his toes rather harshly.

No words are exchanged between the two. Doesn’t seem necessary. They’re team, after all. The doc separates, goes down to the Gate - takes a second to yell at Dr Z a final time about not touching anything in his lab or whatever – J.J. shakes his head, hiding a smirk. Some things never change.

After the Gate shuts down, people shuffle to get going get busy do something. The Major and his Raven linger for a moment, staring at the ring of naquadah, before turning. Doesn’t look entirely comfortable. The Major gives some directions to Chuck, before moving to the Doc’s empty office. Colonel Caldwell joins him; the Daedalus will take off in a couple of hours. Whatever is said in there, J.J. doesn’t get to hear.

He turns to his team. Gate activity is still suspended, for time being. Now they have nothing more to do, some free hours. Did their part, earning their rest.

“I’m going to go for a run. Who’s in?”

DeSalle inclines his head. “Could use the exercise.”

(they all know it’s not for the exercise  
but to clear their heads. to move,

to keep moving until they’re exhausted  
and will fall asleep so deeply that they won’t dream.)

* * *

Later, as night starts falling, J.J. gets called to Weir’s office – the Major sits in her chair, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. The laptop in front of him is open and the frantic tapping of the keyboard halts when J.J. and Juno arrive on time, announcing himself. He’s asked to take seat, if he’d like to. A retaining of the relaxed protocol.

The Daedalus has lifted off. Not without leaving someone behind, though. The guy is average looking, pale, dark hair. A zoomie. Another Major.

 _Oh, great,_  whispers Juno; the Zoomie is fine as CO, more than fine actually. But the year has been tumultuous and nothing but ordinary, and this other Major is a complete stranger.

“Corporal, this is Major Lorne,” the Major says, introductions flying off his tongue like he doesn’t want to say it. Voice is pleasant and controlled, though. Expression giving away little. The Raven appears to be snoozing on the back of the Doc’s chair, head tucked under a wing; the other is stiff, injured still, but at least both human and Dæmon are up and about. “He’s going to be XO for time being.” Unknown schedule. No one knows; if the Doc will return, if Ford and Bates and the others will come with her. If they’ll all be recalled in the end and the City left abandoned. “That’s not why I called you here, though. Sergeant Bates is off-word –” (odd: the way he says it. as if Atlantis is the one homeworld now, and all else is foreign territory, including Earth) “– and I need a guy I trust as Acting Head of Security.”

J.J. blinks. Not expecting that. “Sir, not that I’m ungrateful or nothing, but what about AR-4?”

“You can still go on the occasional mission, don’t worry about that.”

Right. Because the Major has led his team through the Gate time and time again while being CO. Compared to that, acting as Head of Security should be a piece of cake. Most of that is administrative, anyway. Thinking, planning. Staying ahead. J.J. can do that. And in the City, everyone helps one another. Few people are allowed to be the only person good at what they do. Multitasking and dipping into various areas of study isn’t just encouraged; it’s necessary. Gladys is thinking of getting a proper degree in Archaeology, he knows, mentioned in passing now that they’ve got contact with Earth again. The SGC would surely support such decision, not stopping her from pursuing both that and a continued military career. Same with a lot of people.

“Think about it,” the Major goes on, probably noticing the conflict passing by briefly on his face. “Let me know before 00:00.”

“I will, sir.”

A hint of a smile. “All right, dismissed. Get rest some rest, Corporal.”

J.J. stands up and salutes. Cannot resist doing it with this foreign Major Lorne here watching, and Major Sheppard returns the gesture.

* * *

He leaves the office in a slight daze. Bumps into Faulkner, who’s on Gate Guard duty by the stairs below. Asks what the Old Man wanted. Reads the lines in J.J.’s frown. 

“If you just got field promoted, I’ll get my hands on some champagne, cross my heart,” Faulkner says, mimicking such a motion with her right hand.

“Nothing like that.” J.J. shakes his head. “The Major wants me temping as Head of Security.”

“Well, have fun with that. I hear all the Sarge does is sign papers and look gloomy and important. You can pull it off easy.”

A chuckle. “Maybe. Seen any of my team around?”

“You’re going to spring this on ‘em now? Guy will be all-over you.”

“Hmm, so, maybe not yet. Want to catch a bite when your shift’s over?”

Faulkner consults her wristwatch. “If you can carry the burden of hunger for another couple of hours, sure. I’ll radio you.”

* * *

Within that hour, as he’s in the gym lifting weights, he decides. Takes a swift shower and walks back to the Control Room, to the Office. The Major isn’t there anymore. The right Major, anyway; Major Lorne is lounging around, looking important. Probably seeking to grasp the intricacies of this base and its people. Oh, that will take a long time.

Chuck directs him to the nearest transporter; the Major has gone to the South Pier. J.J. hurries best he can. Finds the Major sitting right on the outer edge, feet dangling over the hundred-foot drop. Out here they rarely have any activity or movement; the occasional exploration of an Ancient lab, once or twice a fictitious battle scenario exercise. The Major is sitting there, the Raven with him; not flying. J.J. wonders how far, how high, just what the limit usually is – but with that wing they’re both grounded. Somehow, though he walks quietly, in a manner that should have left him undetected, neither Raven or human turn around and they still know it’s him. Just how he knew, J.J. has no clue.

Maybe a hunch.

Stars are wheeling overhead. A new sky. New constellations. The two moons cast white shadows on the City, which is lit from within like a beacon. The shield is down, as is the cloak. No one knows they are here. They’re going to try and keep it that way. The air is pleasantly warm, like at the height of summer. 

“Made up your mind, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir. It’s a yes.”

“Great. You’ll have the necessary files by morning.” A slight turn of head; the Raven is looking at him, its eyes eerie and bright in the gloom of dusk. Then it blinks slowly and looks away, and the Major moves his hand. Something’s in it.

Hey, is that beer? Honest-to-God Earth stuff? The question slips out before he can stop it; and the Major chuckles. “Sure is. The Daedalus brought more than ammo. Have a seat.”

J.J. does. It’s more than an invitation to sit down; it’s the signal that he’s allowed to drop the remnants of protocol. For a moment act as if they’re just two guys hanging out after a long day; a long week. Has to quietly admit that, despite the time having passed, and the sense of intimacy this base has - every face known, every name familiar – this is weird. He hasn’t spent much time with the Major himself. He is, after all, just another redshirt and the Major’s the CO.

“All we’re waiting for now are the television re-runs,” the Major quips, offering a bottle. It’s heavenly cool. J.J. lets Juno open it with her strong jaws, somewhat to the amusement of the Major - just Sheppard now, he insists. “And the movies which premieres we’ve missed. I was really into sci-fi, also the B-grade stuff, but after this …” An open gesture.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” J.J. says. Life is just so complicated now. Some things are not the same anymore. “Always up for  _Star Trek_ , though. Grew up with  _The_   _Next Generation_.”

“More of a S _tar Wars_  guy myself,” Sheppard says, chuckling. “There’s an allure in both. Let’s not start a war over it.” That’s happened before. Especially among the scientists. Things can get pretty vicious there.

Somehow, though a bit stilted in the beginning, conversation turns from movies and onward, to the past and the possible future. A murmur of Earth, of politics but they quickly abandon that route. J.J. gets a sense that Sheppard is much cleverer than he lets on. The little things. The way he talks; questions about the City, about the physics of flight and the Stargate, as if he understands all that stuff. And the fondness of his team is so burningly earnest and evident; they share anecdotes.

Sheppard has already read the reports, of course; but J.J. retells the events of friendly missions where no one got hurt but crazy stuff still happened, and Sheppard does the same. Mentions of their pre-SGC days. He hasn’t had access to the Major’s file, not other than in the sense of rumors. Remember the chest candy, though, the whispers in the Mountain, of Special Ops and all sorts. Stints in Afghanistan and Iraq. There’s common ground there, even if they belong to two different branches, so often competing with and ridiculing the other. There’s common ground.

Then his radio chirps; it’s Faulkner, having finished her shifts. Asks if he’s still up for a late chow. Sheppard grins and tells him to move it; it’s a bad thing, letting your comrades down, even if it’s just about having a bite together. The Major doesn’t tag along, doesn’t ask and J.J. is kind of glad. As much as Sheppard is a nice guy, he’s still CO. There’s a distance there that has to be maintained.

“Nice talk, sir.”

“Likewise, Corporal. Get going. Your day starts early tomorrow.”

Nice to know that despite all that’s happened, the Wraith, the Siege; the light-show and the Raven appearing - it seems to be just like any other Dæmon. It’s got wings, that’s all. Despite what’s happened, what’s been done, Major Sheppard is just a human. It’s a comfort to realize that. Settling something that’s been silently worrying him for some time now. J.J. leaves the Pier with light steps, finds a transporter. After eating, he’ll get hold of his team if they’re not otherwise occupied.

They shouldn’t be. It’s a Wednesday – the traditional team-night when they’re not offworld.

J.J. presses the glowing dot on the map as the transporter opens, stepping inside; the white light carries him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*Lyrics come from the first stanza of the Marines' Hymn, the oldest and official hymn of the USMC._   
>  _*"Corps" is an informal way of addressing a Corporal or Lance Corporal._


	10. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _if this was a free colony, Weir would govern it with rules of openness and equality._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2016-07-31) Thank you everyone for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting! Without you this fic wouldn’t be finished!  
> (2018-04-01) Chapter updated/revised.

**x.  
**

# epilogue

 _if this were a free colony, Weir would govern it  
with rules of openness and equality._  

* * *

“Go fish.”

“C’mon, where’s the  _enthusiasm_ , DeeDee?”

“I am enthusiastic.”

“Right. Of course. J.J., king of spades.”

A sigh and a mutter. He relinquishes the card, eventually.

“Ha-ha! There we go ... Nick, seven of hearts.”

“Go fucking fish.”

“Oh, right, almost forgot. Lance Coolie Nichole No-Nickname Gladys, please forgive me for this grave oversight.”

A chuckle, fond and warm. “Oh, shut up before I change my mind.”

Kemp reaches for the pile. Judging by his expression, doesn’t get the card he wanted. It’s Gladys turn. She’s in the lead. J.J. has no idea how she does it. At least this time neither money nor booze (or even the swapping of duties) is involved. Still takes it pretty seriously, though. To lose is to bear the shame for a long, long time.

Gladys turns to him: “Seven of clubs.”

Another sigh and he hands her the card, ignoring the triumphant grin. Attempts to send her his hardest glare; it slides off like a shrug, unhindered. “Think the Doc will come back?” J.J. asks. Doesn’t want to sound anxious at the prospect of the answer being no. Atlantis is the same and yet ... different. 

This year, so much has changed. Been shaped, sculpted into something beautiful and powerful. So different than they had anticipated. Fates left undecided. They’ve formed something much bigger than just a base, together, bonded. Now some outsiders are trying to pour sand into the cracks and could attempt to tear them apart. Making replacements. Recalls. 

A shrug. “Hope so. No idea what the IOA is really like, but they’re stiff civvies in fancy ties. It’ll take a while before they make a big decision like that.”

“So,” Gladys smacks her lips together in contemplation; “they’ll probably question every decision the Doc and the rest of us has ever made. But, hey, they wanted a civilian to lead this ride. That was the whole deal. Guy, knight of diamonds.”

“Go fish. Whatever happens, that new zoomie, whatshisface – Lorne? - he’d better not take over the show. Him being XO is bad enough.”

“He can’t; guy’s just a Major. DeeDee, nine of hearts.”

An exchange. DeSalle throws a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “So’s the Old Man, y’know.”

“True,” J.J. says. This thought also an uncomfortable one. A new CO would be so strange, so otherworldly, after all they’ve been through. No guarantees of understanding. But, with the Uprising, as it’s become known as already, the chances of that ought to be slim. The Doc would certainly be against it, argue well and long. Plus, General O’Neill seemed understanding of their plight and their desires. Seeking that cooperation is the right way to go. “But it’s all about circumstance. Now that we’re back on report with Earth ...”

“Think he’ll make light bird?”

Gladys considers this. “Unless he faces court martial. Again.”

“Ha,” Kemp exhales. “Guy’s already faced down one of those. No problem - pretty sure he’s got the nine lives of a cat, not just when it comes to getting shot at and shit. Bet you all he’ll make light bird in … three months. Yeah, once the Daedalus comes back.”

“Kemp …” A sigh and shake of head, but not out of spite or anger.

“OK, switching subjects, got it. How about this though; we all know the Old Man is seeing  _somebody_. My money’s on Emmagan. She’s seriously hot. And they seem pretty close. I mean, ever seen them spar? with the sticks?  _Seriously_  hot.”

“I call bullshit,” Gladys says, snorting. Takes a sip from her glass. Harsh, fiery stuff bought on Balkan; really good. Another thing they’ve found while isolated from the Earth, unknowing if they’d ever return, if they would ever again taste Earth food and drink its beverages. Not a problem anymore, though. The Daedalus will starting regular milk runs. That is, if all goes as planned and the Expedition is allowed to stay here in Pegasus. “Though he is seeing  _someone_.”

They’re veering into dangerous territory here, if anyone was to listen in. It’s their CO they’re talking about, after all. Still, temptation is far too strong to resist. “Who’s the lucky gal then, huh?” J.J. adds: “Could be Miko, you know, Kusanagi, the physicist. With the glasses. She’s cute.”

“And probably a beast in –” Kemp is cut off by Gladys’ sharp elbow.

“That’s my friend you’re talking about.” Almost like a conspiracy, she says: “Nah, it’s not her.”

“Who, then? You  _know_? Come on, spill, Nick … Gladys, buddy, you can’t keep us on the hook,” Kemp whines.

“I have a clue.” She leans forward and whispers the name like a secret. J.J. thinks it could have been a joke, six months ago, but now ... now he’s suddenly not so sure. That tells a lot about this place and its people. When he thinks about it ... yeah. It does make kind of sense. This isn’t Earth; and the Doc is already pressing to change the inhibiting rules.

(if this was a free colony, Weir would govern it   
with rules of openness and equality)

“Bet you all,” Gladys continues in a louder, more normal tone; ”it’ll be an open secret within twelve months.”

DeSalle is intrigued. “Name your prize.”

“Chocolate rations for a full Earth year.”

In return she receives a heavy smirk: “Right, then. You say twelve months – I say fifteen. You’re on, Gladys.”

J.J. simply shakes his head, refusing to join in on such a bet. Better safe than sorry. Chocolate is a heavy prize, after all. Even if he’s pretty certain that Gladys is right; not that she needs to know.


End file.
